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Monthly Archives: June 2013

“Wow, Laura’s gone through 7 blog posts without talking about how gay she is??? This was not what I was expecting at all,” is what no one is thinking because I don’t think anyone gives a shit or has any expectations regarding the content of my blog. But, I am the kind of person who does not shut up about being gay, and I attribute this mostly to the fact that, for a good portion of my life, I was so deeply closeted that I didn’t even realize that there was a closet. So now I have to make up for that and remind people constantly that I like ladies in a very sexual way.

Does it ever cross my mind that I’m being obnoxious about it? Sometimes, yeah, and I’ve had a lot of these moments throughout my life. I have just very recently stopped being a teenager, and I can say with certainty that being a teenager sucks. Being a gay teenager was pretty bad as well, and I’m still annoyed at how much of my time I spent worrying about how I felt about dick.

And let me just say that the Internet does not help at all in these situations. I’m the kind of person that Googles every question she could ever think of, so when I’m 16 and Googling “if I think about having sex with girls, does that mean I’m gay” and every answer is “NO! OF COURSE NOT! Only you can decide your label!!” it gets a little confusing. Not that those statements aren’t true, of course they are, but I needed to add in the fact that I only thought about having sex with girls and I had various crushes on girls but I didn’t know they were crushes because other girls would tell me that I had crushes on boys and I would be like “…sure??”

You know, it was something I worried about for a long time, but one of the best moments that comes along with being gay or being different at all and stressing out about it is the moment you stop giving a shit. I think this is probably a series of moments that happens throughout your life, but there was a day in high school where someone wrote “Dyke” over my last name and the first thought in my head was, “yep.”

It’s honestly one of the prouder moments of my life. Calling anyone a dyke is never cool, we know that, but imagine how much easier coming out would have been if my last name was Dyke? People would be like, “oh Laura Dyke? Right yeah duh she likes girls.” It would have been great. It’s like the name equivalent of playing softball in high school. I would have been set for life.

Unfortunately for Laura Dyke, though, she probably would have found another way to be incredibly confused about her sexuality for years. “Just cause my last name is Dyke doesn’t mean I’m gay,” I would shout with the same intensity that I shouted the fact that just because I could only think of female celebrities when we all discussed the hotness of famous people, it doesn’t mean that I want to have sex with them.

And then later I would think about having sex with them.

So now I approach talking about how gay I am and other gay things with that same attitude. “Yep.” It’s what I like talking about. I think probably some people think I’m silly for constantly brining it up, but it’s not something I care about anymore.

So, with that in mind, here’s are some brief thoughts involving oral sex.

One of my favorite things that straight girls say (and I have compiled a detailed list of them) goes something along the lines of “Women are hot, but I could never be a lesbian because vaginas are gross!!”

And I don’t want to make fun of straight girls because I’m friends with a lot of straight girls and they’re all fine, wonderful people. That’s definitely not my intention, just like their intention when they say that is not to be mean or anything like that. It’s genuinely how they feel, and I appreciate that honesty.

I’ll admit it! Vaginas are not typically great. At the end of the day, it’s still someone’s genitals. I’m not a lesbian because I see a vulva and think, “Yes! I would love to put my mouth on that immediately!” Maybe some lesbians think that, I’m just not one of them. I’m a lesbian because I “liked” Spring Breakers on Facebook to periodically get pictures of Ashley Benson looking like this:

Screen Shot 2013-06-27 at 3.31.11 PM

and then thinking, “Yeeeeeah, that movie was pretty great.”

And it’s not even like I don’t enjoy giving oral sex, because I totally do. It’s a great time. It wasn’t like I expected at all. You enjoy it a lot more than you think you will, trust me. There’s also the added benefit that comes with giving cunnilingus (what a great word, by the way), which is that no matter what, it’s gonna be pretty great feeling for the other person. I typically go into it the same way I approach any kind of competitive board game or sport: with no strategy and no knowledge of what the hell I’m doing. So far it’s worked out pretty okay for me.

I’m just saying that the vulva (not so great of a word) is not the end-all-be-all for lesbianism. There are also breasts and other stuff that are also really nice. And since I’m in a relationship, there are a lot of lesbians I can’t have sex with. Namely, all of them but one. That’s perfectly fine with me, because there are also a lot of other facets of lesbianism that I can participate in. Like making jokes about Uhauls that my straight friends don’t understand, or trying to convince my two queer friends that I could totally be butch if I wanted to be because I took wood shop in eighth grade and I wasn’t terrible at it.

Being gay is great. I have not loved every second of it, but in the gay world all this shit that comes with it are like little experience points that you just tally up and you can use them to come off as emotionally troubled and deep and sensitive and stuff. That usually works out. Some straight people have a lot of guilt and if you push just the right sympathy button, everyone feels sorry for you and then you get drunk off of the power that you now have.

And you also gain a whole community of people! They’re like the sisters you’ve never had. Except their sisters that you’re also sexually attracted to and you’ve probably hooked up once or twice but it’s okay now because she’s dating someone really great and you fully support that relationship. Or also possibly the two of you dated and now you’re broken up and you continue to make out with each other because you moved in together because all lesbians are idiots and this is what we do.

Everyone should try lesbianism at least once. You don’t necessarily have to go spelunking between a woman’s legs (but if you want to, go for it, you will probably not be disappointed) but maybe give The Real L Word a shot. Listen to some Tegan & Sara and figure out how to tell them apart. Buy some plaid flannel shirts and wear them on the hottest fucking day of the year because that is what all the baby gays do. It’s a good time. Learning how not to care was the greatest thing that my lesbianism has brought me, and I just hope that maybe I can impart that wisdom onto some of the straights.

And then maybe they’ll realize why I never care about their problems.

I live in a very overdramatic household. It’s mostly because we’re all borderline insane (and not in the ha-ha-my-family-is-so-cah-razy way and more in a psychotherapy-twice-a-week way) and all that’s on the TV is late night crime dramas where we watch women almost get turned into candles by insane (in a sociopathic way, which my family has seemed to avoid so far) cab drivers. But anyway this can lead to some pretty overdramatic reactions. Just recently my mother spent nearly $300 on train tickets when I had already gotten bus tickets for under $20 because she was terrified of my body getting made into candles.

And the best is when we all freak out about the same thing, and we adopt the insane (this time it’s in a bad, cliche way) dialogue of soap opera regulars. Usually it just makes me even angrier than before. There are three that are the most popular, and they are forever stamped on my amygdala (there’s a very nuanced theme in these paragraphs, if you haven’t noticed) (the theme is parentheses).

The first one that comes to mind is  The Interrupting I-Saw-This-In-A-Movie-Once-Aren’t-I-So-Clever Move.

This is most infamously seen in the classic: “I just didn’t think-” “NO, YOU DIDN’T THINK.” I feel like many dramatic moments are created in these words. How many actors have won academy awards for their amazing deliveries of these lines? I wonder if the first person who wrote this is really proud of them. I wonder if their mom is proud of them. Or maybe this just came up organically in his or her life and then later they improved it into a scene and now it’s a common staple in all of my household arguments.

Either way, I hate this so much. First of all, interrupting someone is rude, even if that person is me trying to defend how out of my way I went to go deceive my parents and skip school and then subsequently get bad grades which led me to lie about my report card in high school. I demand respect.

But mostly it’s because the person who does the interrupting becomes a cocky asshole and no matter how the conversation was going before, they now have the upper hand because this line is just so goddamn smart that anything the other person says sounds like immature drivel. I fall into this trap so much that now I try to avoid the word “think” in all conversations. Examples: I just didn’t foresee my actions as creating negative reactions. Or there’s also a new phrase that I’m trying to adopt, which is “go fuck yourself.” That one is pretty empowering.

Now the next one doesn’t come up in arguments so much, and it exists solely to make other people feel bad and that is “Are you okay?” “NO I’M NOT OKAY.”

Alright so I know that all of you have said this at one point in your life and you’re currently reliving this moment now and you feel personally victimized by me right now, and that’s okay, because I’m victimizing myself. I said this once when I was eleven to a girl younger than me when I stubbed my toe on a rock and I periodically randomly recall that moment and the shame and horror that I feel can ruin my entire day.

The thing is, “Are you okay?” is kind of the go-to phrase when someone gets hurt and if you don’t say it you look like a heartless douchebag who just floats through life without any regard to people’s feelings. And while I actually go through life like that, I do need some human interaction on a semi-weekly basis so I’m forced to keep up appearances. So you have to say it, or else you look like you don’t care, but then if someone follows it up with “No, I’m not okay” it just ruins it all.

I’m an avoider. I avoid all problems and pain and confrontation and I will find any total and completely crazy way to make sure that I can keep the frail look of panic off my face. And by doing that, I have found that, a lot of the time, if you ignore something, it goes away. Now this is sometimes a harsh reality and also it can backfire on you and make things a million times worse, but when it comes to things like this, I could be in the worst pain ever imagined and if someone asked me, “Are you okay?” I would respond with “Yeah, totally, not a big deal.” I’ll probably end up giving birth while getting my hair cut because I’m so terrified of causing any kind of attention to myself.

But people who go nuts and take their moment in the sun with “NO I’M NOT OKAY” are not avoiders. And you know what I do to people who are not avoiders? I avoid them. Like I do with most people.

I’ll just never understand it. If I didn’t really care if you were okay when I asked the first time, you can be completely sure that I do not absolutely give a shit if you respond with, “No, I’m not okay.” Like, what do you want me to do? What will make you okay? Should I pull out my scalpel and perform surgery on whatever the fuck you accidentally banged on a pole or something? I apologize for expressing concern over your well being, I’ll let you deal with it on your own now, your highness.

But I would rather deal with a million of these if I never had to experience this last one ever again. And that is the “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry.”

There is not a single phrase in the English language that makes me angrier. I’m a lesbian who’s 1/3rd Polish and you could say every offensive term in the book, real or made up, and I wouldn’t be half as angry as I am when you say this to me.

I can’t even joke about it. And the thing is, if you’re apologizing to someone, you can’t be like “Well, fuck you then, I take my apology back” because obviously you already feel like an idiot for doing whatever you did and then when you try to apologize to maybe ease your own conscience you get a “Don’t be sorry.”

Is it supposed to be comforting? I just feel like people heard this in Silver Linings Playbook or something and then adopted it as this thing that people say when a moment in real life feels dramatic. Does it make you feel better? I’ll never understand this.

This one is rare, though, and thank god. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it usually takes a lot to get me to apologize to someone, but when it happens the person who says it is immediately drops to the bottom of my list. Again I just feel like a lot of the time you have to say that you’re sorry and I will just never understand people who just ruin it for you. You’re just trying to be a normal, decent human being and they had to turn it into their Academy Award winning performance and make you feel like shit in return.

So what’s the point of this? Mostly it’s just to vent about previous experiences that I’ve had while interacting with the human race because life is a bitch. But also please dear god do not ever say these things. I’m wondering if I should just carry around a stack of cards that has the URL to this blog post so when someone says them I can let them know what a jerk they are.

BE NICE TO PEOPLE. Am I crazy, or is pretty much 70% of what we say really just because we don’t want people to know we’re the worst people on Earth inside our heads? We’re all just trying not to be that guy that everyone hates so don’t be that guy that everyone hates.

Though it is clearly possible that I am just actually crazy.

I complain about summer a lot, but I’m trying to look on the bright side of it. Mostly I’m trying to imagine that I’m in a writer’s colony but by myself so I don’t have to deal with all the shitty people I would hate and also I have a summer job and sometimes I have to write about MTV shows I don’t watch. I figure that there probably won’t be another time in my life when I can just drop everything and come up with, say, a 10 episode television series that will never get produced in any capacity, so I’m trying to take as much advantage as possible.

And also I love warm weather and I love that my parents are paying for all my food. So it doesn’t all suck.

Summer, if you’re me (which I am), is kind of the opportunity of a lifetime. I love being a homebody, I love eating three pieces of red velvet cake when my parents are out, and I love sitting in my room and making crap and coming up with weird ideas.

This is why I’m probably be going to be putting up a lot of dumb shit up here because I’m bored and I want to have fun and, for me, fun is making videos about Lauren Conrad’s Instagram account and discussing what fake Twitter account I would be.

But I’m also a very fragile and very nervous person. I still cringe when I think of college rejection letters I got nearly three years ago. There are a lot of cruel and mean people out there. I should know, I am typically one of them. The last thing I want to do is beg people to not be mean to me, because that’s pathetic and it won’t work. But there’s also the potential that no one will care, and I would also be fine with that too.

So in preparation for these only two outcomes that could possibly occur, I have developed a defense mechanism before anyone has ever said anything to me, and that is the phrase, “yeah…that’s the point.”

I really wish I discovered this sooner, because it would have come in so much handy earlier in my life.

For example, here are some real life conversations that would have occurred if I had the command of this phrase that I do now.

“Wow those gold leggings look dumb.”
“Yeah, that’s the point.”

“You look sick today.”
“Yeah, that’s the point.”

“You’re so pale because you spend all day on the Internet.”
“Yeah, that’s the point.”

I feel like you can say this to pretty much anything. I mean, in reality it’s pretty much a lie, but who cares because the person you’re talking to is a jerk? It makes you look like a confident person who was all about that life and just looking dumb and pale because you wanted to, even though later you’ll probably cry in your bedroom alone because you already have some self-esteem issues and you’re appearance is actually really important to you. But they don’t have to know that!

So, arm yourself everyone. I’m considering getting it tattooed somewhere around my face so I can just point to it in the future. (“Wow what an ugly tattoo.” and then I point to my tattoo.) Act like you know what you’re doing and then maybe one day you’ll actually know what you’re doing. I don’t know, I haven’t even started on acting like I know things so I can’t exactly vouch for that advice, so maybe you shouldn’t actually do that.

I feel like this is all very uncharacteristically upbeat. Don’t worry, I just glanced at Facebook and thought, “everyone’s a piece of shit” and then retweeted Tyra Banks so I’m still the same. This is simply a brief moment of weakness to tell you the secret of my future fake confidence, because reading this automatically puts you in an elite group of people that deserve all the of the sage advise I can grant you. And if you ever doubt my position, just remember that I was born without wisdom teeth, making me a higher evolved human.

“You’re being an egotistical douchebag.”
“Yes, that is the point.”

Saturday evening, my parents left their adult children alone in their home to attend a wedding. I proceeded to steal their booze and store it in two different coffee mugs in my bedroom (vodka in the one with the elegant monogram on it, gin in the one commemorating the Cystic Fibrosis foundation) while my brother ate two entire pizzas by himself in the basement.

I haven’t had this alcohol yet because the last thing I needed was for my parents coming home to a wasted me, lounging on the living room couch, watching Monsters Inc. for the second time on FX. However, I continued the party spirit of last night by continuing to wear the same shirt I slept in and drinking a 1.25 liter bottle of Coke.

Let’s just say that if I was a file sitting in your Documents folder, you’d drag this right into trash. And then empty the trash, but first make sure you’re volume is up all the way to hear the little crinkle noise Macs make when you empty the trash because that noise is high on the list of MacBook pros. (High on the list of MacBook cons: looking like a douchebag.)

There’s nothing like a shitty weekend, especially when that shitty weekend turns into a terrible week, which in turns becomes a shitty month, then a shitty year, and then you’re on your deathbed surrounded by your dumb, shitty children realizing that your whole life was this weird shitty mess.

But at that point you’re dead, so just leave it to others to contemplate your shitty, former existence.

So, to say that I’m having a bad day is a bit of an understatement. You know I’m in a terrible mood when even the idea of Pretty Little Liars coming back tomorrow does nothing to lift my spirits. I’m having the kind of day where a cocaine addiction seems like an acceptable route to move in, despite the fact that I am a white girl in the suburbs currently and the chances of me locating cocaine are slim to none. And there’s also the fact that my nasal passages are often swollen and that doesn’t really seem to facilitate cocaine addiction.

And yet, I’d be willing to try which is more than I can say about most things right now.

Something I like to do when I feel like this is wallow in self-pity and post sad things on Twitter until someone notices me. When I’m not doing that though I like to think about how bad my eyesight is getting, and I can tell it’s getting worse and worse because when I go downstairs to watch Jeopardy I can barely read the clues and my dad reads them before me and shouts out the answer and the shame I feel hurts me deep inside. Also I think about how many liters of sweat has come out of my body since apparently I live in the butthole of Hades. Even my laptop is giving off so much heat and I can’t believe a friend would betray me like this.

What do you guys do when you’re like this?? When you feel dead inside, I mean. I used to read books but I got addicted to DailyGrace a little while ago and my eyesight is getting even worse.

SOMEONE HELP ME not go blind please.

When I was younger there were two jobs that I was obsessed with having and those were a ballerina and a teacher. The ballerina dream died pretty early because I refused to sit still or pay attention in ballet class (although I did get this sweet bright purple leotard out of it and I loved it), and I’m pretty sure I only wanted to be a teacher because we had a chalkboard in our basement at the time and I liked writing with chalk. I let go of that dream when I realized that I hated everyone, especially dumb kids and their parents.

So we’re back at square one. Technically right now I’m a professional blogger, which is not something to brag about to the long lost half cousins that I will inevitably run into one day (this isn’t a joke, I actually have long lost half cousins somewhere in the world, somehow that makes this funnier) and it’s not really something I want to keep as an official job for very long after my early twenties. It seems like a very “early-twenties” kind of job option.

Therefore I have to establish a few goals for the future, and I’ve been able to establish the following career options to pursue:

1: Professional Blackmailer

I was explaining this plan to my mother a few days ago. Since I got my iPhone it has been a mission of mine to catch a Senator, or frankly any kind of powerful person, doing something horribly and and outrageously scandalous (sex, drugs, being a giant homo, etc.), snap a photo of it, and slyly use it to blackmail him for the rest of my career.

Mom was not convinced.

“Why would a Senator be anywhere near you at any point?” She asked me.

This is exactly why I would make a perfect candidate. My mom’s suggestion that I don’t normally frequent places that are Sentaorially classy aside, I am able to worm my way into the most dangerous parts of society (college parties, college dorm rooms, lesbian bars when I turn 21), this puts me right in position. Part of my advantage is that no one expects the small town tiny blonde girl to take a photo of you and BAM blackmail you into giving her a penthouse apartment in New York City.

But unfortunately this means I have to memorize each face of every Senator of the United States, plus every other powerful person and that really takes time away from my current day job. If only I were a professional political blogger, then I’d be set. No, I’m more likely to recognize an actor from Teen Wolf than most political figures. So that kind of sets me at a disadvantage.

This job also requires a bit of luck, which I will admit to having on certain occasions, but I lose more cake walks than I win. And also it’s not like I could ever admit to having this job because obviously the secret would be out and that’s just shoddy blackmail work.

So, if you ever meet me in the future and I’m a rich bitch who occupies herself with several different hobbies, I’m definitely NOT blackmailing anyone.

2: Author of the Below the Beltway column in the Washington Post Magazine

So this one is oddly specific in a gross “oh, well I read it the Washington Post Magazine” kind of way so I know you’re already turned off but it does have the word “author” in it, which you have to admit is a way more likely career for me than “blackmailer” so you’re hoping that I might not be completely ridiculous.

I have a longstanding theory that the only people who read this column are me, my mom, and old people in the DC area. I honestly don’t know a single other person in the world who reads this as religiously as I do, and even if you were friends with me you wouldn’t know that I read it. When I’m home I immediately flip to the back of the magazine and read it in print no less, which is probably the most archaic activity I still engage in. But when I’m in college I have to read it online and get barraged by ads begging me to subscribe and I’m like “I can’t! I’m poor! I’m sorry you poor bastards with print media companies!”

This is the column Dave Barry used to write, and I know that also a lot of people my age won’t know who Dave Barry is but he’s funny (sometimes to some people not really to me but he’s known for being a funny guy so Google it and make your own judgements) and right now it’s written by Gene Weingarten who is best known for writing that article about that professional violinist who played in the DC Metro and no one stopped because we’re uncultured swine who can’t recognize talent. It’s a pretty good article (it won a Pulitzer so don’t just take it from me) and I honestly find Gene Weingarten hilarious most of the time, and reading this column has been one of the best parts of my week for years.

That said. And trust me I hate to say this but writing is a cutthroat business but…the guys gettin’ old.

And I’m just what the magazine business needs! A new, fresh, young voice who has never held a job that pays above minimum wage! I’m one of those dickish “millennials” that old people have been up in arms about lately, so obviously I am The Future. And I know what Twitter and Instagram is so if they weren’t incontinent before turning 75 they sure will be when they meet me. And I’m a white girl writing about being a white girl so the amount of media scrutiny I get will be on par with every other famous white girl and it’ll bring new life the The Washington Post Magazine!

I’m pretty much planning to copy and paste all of this into my cover letter when I apply next week.

3: Disney Princess

And this is the one that no one understands. I’ll admit to not even fully understanding it myself, honestly. But there’s something about that gorgeous sparkle on the light blue of Cinderella’s dress that just makes me want to parade down the street in one of the most popular attractions on Earth and get adoringly waved at by millions of strangers.

It just probably demonstrates how far the dark, evil claws of the Disney Corporation have sunk into my heart, but I’ve stopped trying to overanalyze. That’s a lie, I’m constantly wondering why I tear up when I watch videos of small children joyously run into the arms of a giant Minnie Mouse. I don’t understand it. Some nostalgia core deep within my circuitry gets manipulated and I turn into a gigantic mass of sentimental mush.

Which obviously makes this the most ideal career for me. I’m already highly emotional at a dangerous level, so being surrounded by constant reminders of my dwindling youth won’t hurt me or damage me at all.

Honestly, we all just want to dress up like princess and get cute photos of us taken by strangers. That’s all I really want. Those girls probably have, like, millions of great options for Facebook profile pictures.

There are so many other jobs that I want that I am so wildly unqualified or unfit to do. All the blog posts I’ve read about blogging say that you have to ask your readers a question to engage them so they comment! Obviously I’m doing the job of “blogger” pretty damn well. SO what are your dream jobs?? This is something I know I’m never going to shut up about so please give me more material to bore people at parties with.

Mindy Kaling (my hero and role model in every single way) kept a blog in 2007-2008 that was all just things she bought and I’ve been severely addicted to it, so she is completely responsible for this awesomely shallow review of online shopping.

The first thing I ever Googled was Harry Potter and that’s when I discovered that you can find literally anything on the Internet and that is not usually great for an elementary schooler, but as a 20 year old with absolutely no disposable income it’s definitely not great at all. I typically hate shopping in general because I’m cheap as fuck and I can never justify spending $49.99 on a piece of fabric that has been haphazardly arranged by Urban Outfitters factory employee #24601 in some other country mostly because my mom wins blue ribbons at the county fair for her amazing sewing and fabric work and also because I have very particular taste. These things, coupled with the fact that the phrase “do you need help with anything?” tends to send me into a murderous rage makes the Internet a blessed safe haven for me.

There are some issues that I take with it, like the fact that they plaster the words FREE SHIPPING all over the place with a little tiny *on purchases over $200 scribbled next to them, but generally online shopping is great and awesome and I love it. I never actually buy anything because I’m still cheaper than a Jewish banker (I’m dating a Jew and I got an A in Introduction to Judaism so I’m allowed to make these jokes I promise) but I can do it while wearing the same jeans I’ve been wearing since 9th grade and have my hair up in that ratty white girl ponytail that’s only every comfortable after sleeping in it and at that point you’re just committed to it. Also, who the fuck wants to look at dumb, expensive clothes on hangers or headless mannequins when I could look at them on super hot models? If stores really wanted me to come in and buy their crap they should just have hot girls modeling all their stuff for me. Except that would probably intimidate me more, and also it would probably inspire a tweet or two about the commodification of women’s bodies or something and that would be that. Anyway, my latest obsession in online window shopping is Nasty Gal because seriously it’s everything I love in one little Internet boutique and I just want to die everything is so great and I would honestly wear it all.

Take this rainbow fucking skirt for example: Image

If you don’t think that’s fly as hell I don’t want to be friends with you. Just imagine if I had this skirt!! I’d be the toast of gay prides everywhere. Cupcake stores would ask me to model for them and I could be their social media intern on the side because I’m super savvy and smart and capable of taking risks. That’s what this skirt says to me. Unfortunately it also says that it’s $70 and the matching (MATCHING) rainbow crop top (side note on crop tops: I fucking love them but I’m not sure I can wear one because my body type can be described as “skeletal” and I feel like crop tops are meant to, like, not show off every bone in your chest but also I don’t give a shit because a matching rainbow crop top are you kidding me) is another $70 and it’s not like I can have one without the other. So here I am, without the prestigious, yet quaint, cupcake shop internship that I know in my heart I’m destined for. Speaking of destiny can we talk about the sexiest goddamn dress that I have ever seen in my life:

Image

I just mean like are you kidding me?? I am so in love with this I want to die. Just forget about the dumb sunglasses that she’s wearing because my small face can only really pull off those cheap Hot Topic sunglasses that you try on to kill 10 minutes at the mall, and give me everything this girl is wearing and also her life. I love this also because it’s dead sexy (as mentioned before) but also it has juuuust enough not-sexy that I could totally get away with wearing this and, you know, my untied boots or whatever, and just breeze into Literatures of Continental Europe like “oh, yeah, no it’s chill sorry ladies I’m taken don’t all rush to sit next to me and bask in my crazy hot intellect.” Everyone else probably thinks this is the trashiest thing ever (and you don’t even know that it’s called a “garter dress” on the website), but I can’t get enough of this. That girl definitely knows what she’s doing in the bedroom and she also carries business cards in the pocket of her leather jacket and balances the shit out of her checkbook and files her taxes on time. She probably has an amazing credit score. These things are all sexy as hell to me.

But instead, I’m stuck wearing clothes that reveal my true self: unable to mature past 10th grade. I mean that mentally and physically, of course because I still have the same taste in clothing and also I literally have not grown since I’ve been wearing the same jeans for 7 years. I desperately wish that was an exaggeration. But until this blog sends me into mega superstardom like I know it will, my lack of awesome clothes that turn me into a beautiful goddess that effortlessly moves through life with grace and poise and out of reach. I will continue to lament this, and the fact that there is a distinct lack of videos of Percy the Pug from Pocahontas on YouTube. The Internet is just so unsatisfying.