So I love Taylor Swift. I play her music 90% of the time and hum it or sing it the other 10%. (Not really. But I listen to it/hum it a lot, mmkay?) Her songs are just simple and pretty and the lyrics–it sounds so beyond corny, but it’s true–fit my life and my hickish background so well.

Plus, her hair:

And her makeup:

And pretty much just her style in general:

In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a rah-rah I ❤ Swifty post. And I know it’s probably totally gag-worthy for non-fans, but I love  Tay-Tay, and her music means a lot to me. And if I were her, I’d be stoked to see some random girl waste a good twenty minutes writing about how awesome she is. Everyone likes to be told they’re awesome, right?

Also, not gonna lie, this post was totally prompted because whenever a certain Guy smiles at me, I can hear parts of, “Mine,” playing.

“Do you remember, we were sittin’ there, by the water?
You put your arm around me for the fist time
You made a rebel of a careless man’s careful daughter
You are the best thing that’s ever been mine…”


Oooh. Numbers.

I am in an accounting class, and I hate it very berry much. I hate it almost as much as I hate spiders, and cucumbers, and being given jumper cables.

So, Numbers, this is what I have to say to you:

Will Ferrel always says things best.

Going Lesbian

So, I love guys. A lot. Mostly what I like about them is their guy-ish-ness–stubble and arms and tallness and that guy smell that is so delish. But sometimes, I think it would be so much easier to be a lesbian.

I mean, I know it wouldn’t, in the civil rights/getting married/telling Mom sense, but seriously, sometimes it just seems like guys and girls don’t go together.

Take lingerie, for instance. Women wear it for men, but every guy I’ve been with has expressed appreciation before promptly ripping it off a second later. Which is nice, but still, maybe they could actually just look at it for a second before it gets tossed on the floor. And whenever I asked why, the guy responded, “Well, ’cause I like you best naked.” Le sigh. I feel like another girl would appreciate all the pretty bows and thigh-highs a little more.

Also, as far as touchy-feely bullshit goes, I bet that’s easier with someone else who’s also on the mushy side. Someone who also appreciates the distinction (because there is one, God damn it) between, “Love ya,” and “I love you.” And then I wouldn’t feel like such a tool for crying at The Notebook. And Moulin Rouge.

Plus, if I was gay, I could coordinate with my girlfriend:

Sadly, I just can’t bat for the other team. I appreciate girl prettiness the way I appreciate a nice dress. Er, wait, no I don’t. ‘Cause when I see a nice dress, I want to get inside it. So no. Like…a work of art. I guess the simplest way to put it is that I can objectively see the attractiveness of a girl without feeling any attraction to her. Whereas I can objectively see the attractiveness of a guy, but then objectivity falls out the window and I want to jump him.

Oh, lucky lucky lesbians. We straights have it hard. (I kid, I kid.)

Torrid Love Affair (With Things That Cover Your Face)

I love makeup. A lot. We have the kind of relationship where, every month or so, we have a torrid fling, and then we settle into a comfortable pattern until the next bout of passion…explodes on my face. (I had to go there.) Seriously though. What I do is I find some style of makeup, wear it all excitedly (that would be the “passion” portion) and then keep doing that for a few weeks, until I find something new. I usually cycle back and forth between a smokey gray-silver-black and a bronze smokey eye (I’m like the opposite of Forest Fire Bear or whatever. All about le smoke).

But after seeing pictures of Lindsey Wixton, who is a model with a really unique face, I think I might have to bring back the old Doll-Pretty standby: dark lids, rosy cheeks, pink-red lips. I mean, look:

Show-stopping. I’m no model, but hullo, prettiness. It’s not very fall-y but who gives a rat’s anything. Torrid love affair, here we go (I know you’ll always take me back, Bronzey).

My Hometown

This makes me think of walking in my hometown.

Gaelic Is Obviously What’s Up

I kind of wish I had a cool cultural background with lots of weird traditions. I feel like that’s the one place where Whitey really gets the short end of the stick. I was watching Modern Family (so sue me, I have a soft spot for family-oriented comedy shows) and Sofia Vergara’s character talked about some Colombian tradition where you “scare” the food to respect the dead, or something. And my friend eats twelve fish for Christmas, and my other friend has these giant magical family get-togethers with all their native food. And a blogger I read (Doe Deere) has all these awesome, weirdly specific Russian traditions (don’t give scarves as gifts and don’t take out the trash at night).

Do you know what I have? MTV and macaroni.

Not really. But I’m just your typical Eurotrash (mostly mostly Mick with some English), with a pinch of Ottowa Indian (seriously) and French Canadian. And when I say “pinch” I mean like one drop of blood running in my veins. So I don’t know any cool rain dances or how to stretch deer hide. Also people usually mistake me for Norwegian, so I obviously am not really repping the dark-skinned heritage.

My family’s traditions include opening one present on Christmas Eve, andddd…um. Yeah. That’s what we do.

Basically I’m just going to learn a bunch of Gaelic and pretend I grew up with it to add interest to my life. That’s what’s up.

I Mean, It’s For a Good Cause

What outfit fully says, “TA, I will blow you for an A on the accounting test”?

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