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 violĂ ! 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.

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