Girl of the Week: Daisy Lowe

Okay, I have a teeny-tiny confession to make: I don’t do a “Girl of the Week” thing on the Wild Hearts. If you’re a regular reader (ha! Regular readers? What are those!) you probably read that title and thought to yourself, “Oh, shut it. Stop trying to be cool and pretend you have features on your blog. You just ramble.” (Wow, did you really just think that? You’re kind of mean. Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on me, and then I would do features!) Oops, this is spiraling out of control. What I’m trying to say is that if I did do a “Girl of the Week” column, I’d pick Daisy Lowe.

That’s her. If you’re not familiar, Daisy is a model-slash-one of those people who’s famous for being attractive and quirky. Her mother is Pearl Lowe, and her dad is that guy who’s married to Gwen Stefani, which is weird. But why am I writing about her, you ask? BECAUSE I LOVE GWEN STEFANI’S HUSBAND AND ANYTHING TO DO WITH HIM, OBVIOUSLY. Just kidding, that’s a lie. I don’t even know his name (although Wikipedia does).

No, I love Daisy Lowe because of her style, and the fact that she has an adorable British accent and is weird. I like weird people. When I was looking her up to find photos for this thrilling post, I found a spread in i-D magazine where she was posing, topless, with her then-boyfriend, and in like 96.8% of the pictures he was sucking on le nips. Not that I’m saying that’s so awesome, but it’s cool that she just doesn’t really care.

I mean, to be honest, I’ll probably like anybody with odd boho style and bangs, but Daisy Lowe has some extra sprinkling of cool dust. (Okay, I think it’s just the bangs. But still.)

Also, I like her versatility (and that, for a model, she’s not a bone). She can look all normal and cute, and then she can model for Agent Provocateur and it’s like a completely different person. But the whole time, she still seems like the same person. Does that make sense? I’m not sure. It was kind of hard to think of things to write in between photos, since this post was basically an excuse to be like, “Gahh! Look at Daisy Lowe! Don’t you love her clothes and her hair?” Anyway, that’s why Daisy Lowe got the prestigious “Girl of the Week” award! Yeah, whatever. Here’s another picture.

Advertisements

Gold, Not Orange

Tan people are so pretty.

Every time I look at a picture of a tan person and I’m like, “Oh, I want to copy their makeup!” I realize I just want to copy their tan tan face. Also this is a picture of Victoria’s Secret models, and I’ve heard they’re sort of okay-looking too, so maybe that has something to do with it.

Real Women Have Fat…Er, Curves

First of all, let me apologize for yet another gigundo absence. I was off visiting people and doing things and putting the finishing touches on my crystal meth lab, and it got kind of hectic. Plus sometimes I just can’t think of anything good to say, so I just Tumble pictures instead. But anyway.

So, I have this thing that bothers me, and it’s the phrase, “Real women have curves.”

Okay, listen. That is just not true. Some women have curves, and then there’s the other 92% who are some variation on skinny or fat (Google it–only 8 or 9% of women have an hourglass shape). Like, that phrase is just a stupid way of saying that women have boobs and butts, but what pisses me off about that is 1.) I hate when super-fat people call themselves curvy. Like, you’re not “curvy” because you ate three buckets of fried chicken for breakfast. You’re fat. And 2.) Some girls are naturally not curvy at all, and that phrase is kind of mean to them.

Take me, for instance. I would say I’m average weight, although people usually describe me as skinny, I think because I’m tall and it creates some kind of optical illusion or something. And while I have a pretty awesome ass, my ta-tas aren’t huge (although they’re still awesome. Let’s be serious.)–I’m a B-cup. Long story short, as far as I can tell, I’m a real woman (if I’m not made of people meat, no one’s noticed yet) but I don’t have textbook curves (although in college a bunch of people told me I was “skinny-curvy” and I was like, “You wack,” ’cause I am not). You see where I’m going with this? The real phrase should be, “Real Women Come in All Shapes and Sizes.”

And before I get 98 e-mails bitching me out about saying fat people aren’t curvy, I am not saying that heavier women can’t be totally gorgeous. But there is a difference between curves and fat rolls, people.

Absolutely beautiful. But curvy? I DON'T KNOW, PEOPLE. That's the whole question.

You know what though, fuck. After writing this I just feel all jumbly, because when I searched “curvy” for pictures, 99% of them were of chubby girls. So maybe I’m the retarded one and that is the technical definition of curvy. So I probably should go back and re-write this post. Or…I could just post it and let the People of the Internet see the hideous mess that is my brain. Yeah, that sounds like a better plan.

Down With Divas

Okay, so I recently found out about a horrible invention, and it’s called the DivaCup.

Now, before I get sued for slander or something, let me start by saying I’ve never tried it. But that’s basically like saying, “I don’t know if being eaten by three rabid alligators sucks, but I’ve never done it, so it’s not fair to say.” The DivaCup sounds like the most horrible thing since the Japanese Spider Crab, and that’s saying something.

For those of you who aren’t in the know about the DivaCup, it’s a cup for that-time-of-the-month usage. I’ll just spell it out for you: you stick it up your vag and it collects all the blood like a really horrifying glass of wine. YEAH.

I mean, there are so many things wrong with that I don’t even know where to begin. Like, first off, IT’S A CUP FILLED WITH BLOOD JUST CHILLING INSIDE YOU. But besides that, what if it falls out or something while you’re bopping around and people think you just got violently stabbed in the nether regions? What if when you’re changing it, you spill period blood (gag) all over yourself/your pants? And I’m assuming you have to clean that shit before you pop it back in, so how the fuck do you do that in a public restroom? Like, “Oh, hey, what’s up? You’re just washing your hands, huh? Yeah, I’m washing this cup that’s been shoved up my vajangles all day. Yuuup.”

Basically, it sounds like the worst idea ever. So, naturally, I Googled it to see if people who tried it were all like, “OMG it’s like being eaten by three rabid alligators!” But they weren’t. You know why? Because they were all weird hippie freaks.

Every testimonial (okay, the eight testimonials I read–fuck, I’m not a one-woman newspaper here) was like, “You are a huge piece of shit if you don’t use a DivaCup. Tampons and pads are so wasteful. Why don’t you just stab Mother Nature with a knife made out of child slave labor and nuclear waste? The glorious DivaCup is so environmentally friendly and we are amazing people for shoving it all up in our grills.” You should’ve heard what they said about people who use tampons with a plastic (rather than cardboard) applicator: “DIE EARTH-HATING SCUM!”

Okay, not in so many words. But that was seriously the general message. A lot of people tossed around words like “disgust” and “horrible” for people like me, who prefer the clean, sanitary, apparently environment-killing Playtex Sport tampons. Like, really? Next time I see you I’m going to punch you in the stomach so hard your stupid DivaCup comes popping out, dickhead. ‘Cause guess what? I don’t hate the earth because I don’t want to be a walking blood bank; some people are just not down with the idea of having a chalice of O-positive in their pants all day.

In conclusion: wear your DivaCups all day every day if that’s what you’re into, but don’t hate on everyone else, or they might just spray areosal cans into the sky just to spite you. (Also, if you’re a dude, I seriously apologize for this post. It just had to be done.)

 

Just Wanted to Let the Internet Know…

…That I don’t really care for the look of shaved balls.

THERE. I SAID IT. IT’S OUT THERE. Phew, what a relief!

No, seriously. Thanks to the lady-porn machine that is Tumblr, my eyes were assaulted by two (two!) pairs of hairless balls doing some nasty things. I was like, “Scroll down, scroll, ooh a kitten, scroll, haha memes, scroll, HOLYHAIRLESSBALLSACKSBATMAN!”

This was the cat's reaction to seeing so much naked freeballing.

This, of course, caused me to reflect on the many different forms of ball-scaping I have seen. Which is that all the balls I have encountered had some hair. Not, like, Jumangi hair (with one horrible notable exception that shall never be spoken of again…aside from in my 82-chapter tell-all book, In the Forest, The Mighty ForestOf Pubes!, coming soon!). But hair.

You know what hairless balls look like? Tumors. Or two naked mole rats in a very awkward place. Or a flesh-toned bottle-nose dolphin.

So now you know my long-awaited opinion on waxed balls. You’re welcome.

Bragplaining

Do you know what I really don’t like? Bragplainers.

I didn’t make up that word. Somebody who also hates bragplainers probably did, and then all their friends were like, “Wow, that is annoying,” and told all their friends, and then it wound up on Urban Dictionary. So for those of you not in the know, just click those colorful words and be transported to a magical Internet land (hint: it’s PORN! Haha just kidding…or am I? Click it and find out).

But seriously. It’s annoying, but worse than that, it’s obvious. Like, only super-stupid people are going to be all, “Oh, you’re bitching about something awesome? I’m so sorry awesome stuff upsets you! Wow, I feel really bad.” And even if a super-stupid person did that, I don’t think that’s the reaction bragplainers want. I think they want people to be like, “Come on, that doesn’t suck, it’s actually great!” And guess what, dickface bragplainers? YOU ALREADY KNOW IT’S GREAT, SO WHY DO YOU NEED PEOPLE TO TELL YOU THAT? Even out-and-out bragging is better than bragplaining.

"Dude, it's really hard to look like this. T-shirts are always too tight, and girls never want me for my intellect."

I mean, don’t get me wrong. Say, for example, you have bitchin’ high-speed Internet and it goes really slow one day. And you’re all, “God, my Internet is so fucking slow, how annoying!” That’s fine. That’s cool. That’s just good, old-fashioned complaining, and everybody needs to vent. Get it all out. Maybe go Office Space on your computer, if you’re so inclined. Plus, fuck technology; it annoys everyone. But if you say, “Ugh, my brand-new Louboutin heels really hurt my feet,” I politely invite you to go suck a bag of dicks. (And give me your fucking Louboutins, if they’re so unbearably painful.)

The thing is, bragplainers, we all see through you. Your fishing-for-compliments-ness is so obvious. And stupid. Because, hello, I am 987 times more likely to compliment you about something you actually show appreciation for, rather than something you bitch about. You know why? Because bragplaining is dumb, S a D, and buy me some shoes, that’s why.

You Missed Me, Didn’t You?

So, you know when you have a blog you really, really love, and you check it all the time to see if they put up new stuff, and they don’t? And then you’re kind of like, “Well, fuck you too. You could maybe post something before it’s 2012 and the world is over and I’ll be too busy drowning in lava to follow any blogs.”

Yeah, I’m that guy. Except that no one really, really loves my blog, so it’s okay. But I still feel bad when I go on a million-year hiatus and leave my poor, like, eight faithful readers in the cold (I love you all). I’ve just been a smidge busy doing that whole summer thing, and working my new job in hell.

Seriously, though, I promise to write something besides this shitty post promising to write more stuff. Really! Maybe I’ll write a story about a half-zebra half-giraffe mutant baby. Or perhaps I shall interview Michelle Obama with fun questions like, “If Bar was out of the picture, who’d you rather: David Beckham or Johnny Depp?” You never know, maybe I will even put a picture of an adorable cat on here! THE FUN JUST KEEPS ROLLING!