Half-Drunk Is a Waste of Money

I got a little tipsy last night. And by “tispy” I mean dancing, double-fisting drunk.

Seriously, though, there are few joys in life as great as getting bombed. First of all, it makes you happy (unless you’re one of those dicks who starts crying the second the Keystone is cracked). I mean, what? Magic liquid that washes away sadness? It’s like something out of a geeky fantasy book.

Secondly, name one thing that isn’t improved with alcohol. Add “drunk” to the beginning of any activity and it becomes 1,000 times better. Sledding = drunk sledding! Dinner with the parents = drunkenly listening to old people’s stories! I mean, which sounds better to you, dancing or drunk dancing? I thought so.

Of course, this might be my raging alcoholism talking, but even though I got pretty hammered last night, I think that might be in the cards for this evening too. And, let’s be honest, tomorrow as well. Life is short, and I would rather spend my precious minutes in a Midori-sour-induced haze than any other way.

Plus (thirdly? Fourthly? I don’t know, my brain is floating in vodka instead of cerebrospinal fluid) it gives you lots of good stories. When you’re old, would you rather tell your grandkids about how you stayed in every night and played Battleship, or would you like to start stories with, “When I drank that bottle of Jack…” I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be a legend. (Whoa nelly, that sounds a little epic for a post about how much I love to drink. But you know what I mean, Internet.) Whatever, go mix yourself a little something sweet (with about 40% alcohol by volume).

Cat-Owning Apartment Pimp

I can’t wait ’till I have my own apartment. I don’t even really mean my own own, because living with housemates is fine by me. Rattling around in a flat, even a tiny one, with myself and my overactive imagination, is not a good idea. I’d prolly end up killing a Jehovah’s Witness or some Girl Scouts in a fear-induced rampage, and nobody wants that. (Although, hey, free Samoas!)

But seriously, people of the Internet, if you are reading this from the comfort of anywhere that isn’t your parents’ house or a dorm room, feel happy. Just think of all the advantages you have!

1. You can be naked ALL THE TIME. I am partial to strolling around in my panties, personally. (And also alliteration. Ha, I did it again!)
2. Speaking of being naked, sex! Whenever you want! On your kitchen table, perhaps. Or the couch. Or the floor.
3. YOU WILL HAVE SO MUCH MORE ROOM FOR ACTIVITIES.
4. You could have bear-wrestling contests in your house, if you were so inclined. Or if that’s not your thing, you could run a brothel. Apartment = instapimp, just add ladies.
5. You can smoke! I don’t mean ciggies, although I suppose you could, except that’s a bad call (forecast: heavy coughing with a severe chance of lung cancer. Unless they’re Blacks, and then mmmm). I mean something a little greener.

When I have my own place, I am going to make it really cozy, with lots of rugs and squishy mismatched chairs and possibly a fluffy gray cat named Felix. And hopefully a balcony.

Oh, yeah, and maybe a special bear-fighting ring.

Arrr-ight!

Dear Internet, it’s my birthday in two months. I want this:

Thank you in advance.

Winter Wilds

Do you ever just feel like doing something absolutely outrageous, like dancing on a table or streaking or rescuing a giraffe from the zoo and making him be your pet? I get this feeling that I call the “summer wilds,” on account of the fact that it typically takes place in the summer, but I guess my brain is seasonally confused because I have it right now.

Seriously, on January 2nd, I am done with snow and being freezing cold everywhere I go and wearing thirty-seven layers. And not the cute kind of layers, but long-johns (okay, I don’t actually wear those, although if I did it might solve Thing I Hate About Winter #2) and fifty scarves. The snow is all charming and adorable during the holidays, but afterward, when it’s all pollution-dirty and icy? Not so much.

Right now, I just want summer. And I know, those people who bitch all summer about how hot it is and then change their tune are dumb. But seriously, it was -11 yesterday, so fuck it, I want sunshine and sand.

Either way, though, I kinda have that let’s-go-crazy mentality usually reserved for when I’m not pale and suffering from frostbite. Except that I know I’ll be all, “Yeah, let’s rage, come on, let’s go!” and bop outside with some contraband FourLoko and then be all, “Shit, no,” and stumble back into a warm bed.

Long story short, I am just going to shut up, calm down, and appreciate the good things about the world being an icy hell. Like warm cozy blankets, and hot coco with whipped cream, and watching people slip and fall in the snow.

A Post About Shannyn Sossamon and My Hair

I did it! I made the cut. I am the proud new owner (wearer? Haver?) of side bangs. Which I cut all by myself, thankyouverymuch! All it took was a YouTube video and some special haircutting scissors lent to me by the roomie, and violà! I actually like it, although I felt like I was in ‘Nam while I was doing it. I was shaking and breathless with each snip, like I was doing open-heart surgery on my head, and I was hyper-aware of every sound because I was afraid someone was gonna come knock on the door and scare me into chopping off a giant piece. But it was worth the war flashbacks because I really like it.

In other important Wild Hearts news, I, um, hmmmm, well fuck. I don’t have any other important news. It’s kinda sad that my hairstyle is my only important bulliten. I guess I’ll have to make some things up.

I saw a three-headed duck eating a pastrami sandwich! Toddlers have overrun my campus and are now teaching all the classes! Shannyn Sossamon and I are now best friends!

I kinda wish that last one was real. I don’t really know what me and Shannyn Sossamon would do if we were besties, but I know it would be awesome. (One of my friends just told me they got to interview her over the phone, and that was my question: Was she awesome? I don’t even know why I asked since the answer is obviously yes.)

I’m off to buy thousands of textbooks and waste all my hard-earned money, so th-th-that’s all for now, folks! I know you’re really upset that my nonsensical ramblings are done for the day, but don’t cry, there’s always more crazy.

Scissoring

I am considering getting a haircut. (Ahhh, see what I did there? With the title? And you perverts thinking it was a sex thing? But really it was about scissors, because of…okay, yeah, I think you got it.)

Seriously, though, I want one. I am trying to grow my hair out, so I don’t really want them to touch the ends. I just want a sort of side bangs-that-meld-with-the-rest-of-my-hair thing. Kinda like this:

Or maybe something like this:

There are two problems with this brilliant idea of mine, however. Number One is that I am scared. I have had some seriously bad haircutting experiences, including a hairdresser who yelled at me the entire time for straightening my hair (“I can tell you do it. I mean, it’s really obvious. These dead ends…God! Seriously, you need to not do that. It’s so bad for your hair. I mean, your hair is really damaged. Like, really damaged.” Why do you think I’m getting a haircut, genius?) and about fifty whose idea of a “little trim” is scalping me. And Number Two is that I have really fine, thin hair and I’m not sure that it’ll look anything like how I want it to.

So, if it doesn’t work out, I have a backup plan: a blonde-and-blue mullet.

Secretly, I’m just hoping I can finagle some way to side-sweep the hair I already do have into that cool side-bangs thing. I mean, I have shorter hair in the front, so what is their secret? Hairspray? Crisco? Newt’s eyes? Some kind of lube-and-Elmer’s glue concoction? This better not be like the mysterious Coca-Cola formula, because I wanna know.

Barbie Slut Shoes

I love these slutty Barbie heels.

Style Schizophrenic

I like flip books. I also like clicking through my Facebook pictures and watching myself change; it’s like a flip book, except weird and creepy.

Seriously, though, it’s interesting to watch your own looks and style and all those shenanigans morph over time. (Okay, it’s not, I just wanted an excuse to say, “Shenanigans.”) My face is pretty much the same, but my hair went from a long stick-straight middle part, to a stick-straight side part, to straight with side bangs, to shoulder-length, to messy-wavy with side bangs, to now (medium-length wavy). (ALSO, WASN’T THAT FUN TO READ? OBVIOUSLY THE INTERNET LOVES TO HEAR ABOUT MY HAIR. OBVIOUSLY.) As for my clothes, phew. It’s like a style clusterfuck.

So that got me to thinking. If someone from Teen Vogue ran up to me and asked me to describe my style, what the fuck would I say? “Eclectic,” probably, because that’s the clothes equivalent of a crazy old rich man who everyone calls “eccentric.” I.e., “I have no idea, I just buy things.” I think I finally have started to put together something that could be described as “a look” instead of “a closet full of random shit,” but it’s like three different people live inside me when I go shopping.

Sometimes, I am preppy Hollister girl. Which explains why I own six pairs of Hollister jeans, a Hollister miniskirt, Hollister shorts, and way too many shirts and tank-tops and hoodies to count. And some Abercrombie, which is exactly the same except more expensive and less colorful. And yes, Hollister is lame and blah-blah-blah and the only people that buy clothes there are blah-blah-blah yawnnnnnnnnnn. (Who gives a fuck? It’s a store, like any other store. Do I judge you for buying hideous man-like capris at Banana Republic? Actually, wait, I am calling you mean names inside my brain when I see you in those pants, so feel free to retaliate; it’s only fair.)

Other times, I dress like a Playmate. As in, cute slutty pink things. It is the bomb dot com, since I feel like a sexy little tart but it is retarded comfortable. Knee socks, short skirts, little Hello Kitty t-shirts. I know this “style,” if you can even call it that, is about as adult as, um, a very young thing. But never underestimate the comfort level of short-shorts and thigh-highs. And the Guy likes it, so it’s a win-win.

Also, this is a tranny. I just thought I should let you know. It is really hard to find pictures of non-whores in knee socks, and I got bored, so I settled on the tranny.

I guess the last element of the ol’ closet would best be described as “hipster,” although any time someone calls me that I kind of reflexively gag. I dunno why, I don’t really care one way or the other about hipsters, but it just makes me feel like I’ll look down and have a triangle tattoo on my wrist and be ironically wearing a bow tie, or something. (INSTANT HIPSTER.) Think skinny jeans, fringed scarves (I fucking love scarves), plaid button-downs, and lots of cardigans.

But I mean, I guess it doesn’t really matter, since I like all of those things, right?

Or not. So now you know. I am a style schizophrenic. I have let you, the Internet, in on my dirty little secret. Don’t tell anybody or I might just choke you with a pair of leggings.

 

Bunnies Kissing

You know what bothers me about indie movies? They’re sad. Why can’t a movie be great and amazing and award-winning and indie without being 95% depressing? I’m not saying that those movies aren’t great, ’cause they are. But I like happy things.

Like bunnies kissing. Maybe if indie filmmakers looked at this picture, there would be a lot more smiling people on the Sundance channel. Just sayin’.

Oh Honey Honey

There are certain things I’m just a sucker for. Like being kissed on the neck, or fuzzy dogs, or…dance movies. I love dance movies. They’re kind of like superhero movies, in that I love them all, regardless of who is in it or the specific plot. If some inspired genius makes a superhero movie where they dance…well, either Earth will implode or I’ll be one happy camper.

Secretly, he's Batman.

Today, I watched a famous dance movie that I have never seen before–the cinematic masterpiece known as Honey. I will fully admit that I loved it. Why? Obviously you skipped ahead, you naughty Internet you. I don’t care if the actors are holding the scripts in their hands and mumbling every single line in Farsi (okay, I probably would, because that just sounds confusing) as long as there is lots of dancing.

This is Jessica Alba in Honey, as (wait for it) Honey:

Usually, though, she looks more like a ghetto Bratz doll in, like, giant cargo pants and tiny tank-tops. I just had to use that picture to get the attention of the perverts, and also because when I Google “Honey” there are like three pictures that aren’t the movie poster or Pooh Bear. Anyway. That’s her, and she does a lot of dancing.

You know what else she does a lot of? This.

Not that I mean she just puts earrings in for two hours. I mean that she pretty much just walks around looking pretty and talking with a hilarious faux-ghetto accent. (There is seriously a part where she says, “Their flavor is hot!” And she is not kidding. Or talking about food.) But I think Honey was just one of those cases where I like the actress so even though her part is kind of dumb  I don’t care and I like it anyway. (Whereas Natalie Portman could play a role called Everything WildHearts Loves Ever Times a Million and I would still hate it.) Also, it’s a dance movie, so I auto-love it.

I love dancing. I am not good at it, but I love it. I’ve always wanted to take a class or something, but I’m a ridiculously slow learner and so I would have to learn with the five-year-olds and still get extra help. Whenever I do dance workout videos, they’re like, “Okay, step, step, and half-turn, do a magic-twisting-donkey-spiral, and jump, shake-shake, left hand behind head, right arm sweep up and over and switch! Now do it backwards!” And I’m just standing there working on “step.” Do normal people pick that stuff up? Long story short, I’m no Honey. But I think everyone can naturally just dance to good music, so that is the kind of dancing I do.

Also, I want to learn to pole dance.

Before you call me a slut–actually, fine, call me a slut–it’s supposed to be a great workout.

This is one of those posts that was supposed to be about only one thing, but I just keep rambling and rambling and rambling. And rambling. Did you really read all the way down here, Internet? Kudos to you, kudos.