Leopard-Print Sex Shoes

Don’t be shocked, but I’m going to post a picture of shoes and ramble on about how much I want them. Oooohhh, these shoes are sooooo great, I love them sooooo much, pleaseeee someone buy them for me.

No, but seriously, go to the store, buy those, and mail ’em on over.

Ooh La La, French Beauty Secrets

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, I LOVE YOU! You’re not one of the hundreds of people who found it by Googling “tumblr daddy fuck me” or “lion blowjob girl giving” (two real and horrifying terms people used today, according to WordPress–I don’t know what a lion-blowjob-girl is, nor do I want to). Anyway, what I meant to say is, if you’re a regular reader of this blog, you probably have noticed that I like French things.

Stripy t-shirts, their classic style, their crazy fuck-you-ness, and those bonkers accents–they’re all great things. (Plus, a post about French things is the perfect excuse to throw up some pictures of my girl BB!)

But aside from all that, they also are allegedly some of the most gorgeous people in the free world. In a totally different, eclectic sort of way. Or something. This is all from the Internet machine, people, so if you’ve been to France and they’re all hideous slags don’t get mad at me. But it is a stone-cold, not-just-stuff-I-found-on-Google fact that they are skinnier than everyone else, and that’s usually prettier than being wicked obese, so ha!

Annyyyyhooo, after my extensive researching, I have concluded that other people who write blog posts about French beauty secrets have pretty much come to the same conclusions, so I’m going to steal all their ideas and bundle them up in one giant stellar post of beauté. (Hey, it’s fair–they stole them from the French first.)

  1. Moisturize. Maybe just stick like 5 IVs of fluid in you at all times. Everyone seems to agree that French people are like sponges. They drink a fuckton of water, they toss on moisturizer like nobody’s business, and they like to shower (contrary to my former beliefs that they weren’t too keen on the whole hygiene thing). [Also, I guess they like cold showers and washing your face in cold water, because circulation, and science, and something-or-other?]
  2. Use a lot of creams and magic potions and stuff. This goes back to #1. They’re apparently crazy about their skin, which means they find some super-great face wash and stuff and use that religiously. And then they use lotions and powders for everything fucking else–they even have bosom cream. (Yeah, I didn’t typo that.)
  3. Don’t wear a lot of makeup. And I know you’re thinking, look at BB, but she picked one thing to emphasize–her peepers–and pretty much left the rest be, except for some neutral lipstick. The French aren’t into the whole flawless face thing; they just want it to look sexy and natural without it being obvious you used 18 products to get there. ALLEGEDLY.
  4. Try not to be a big fatso. How, asks the person eating three pints of Ben & Jerry’s as they read this? (Just kidding, that’s me. No, it’s not, it’s you. Shut up, just read!) Apparently part of their staying-thin secret (besides that they walk every-fucking-where and exercise a lot of portion control) is that they are vain as fuck. They want to look like hot French mugs, first, and second, they always dress up everywhere, even to take out their trash. So you don’t really want to blort out when you’re wearing a garter belt and nice clothes, ’cause you feel disgusting. So there. Mrs. Ben & Jerry’s, maybe if you change into a skirt suit, you’ll put the spoon down.
  5. Be a sexy bitch all the time. See #4–they just try and look hot 24-7, unlike us lazy Americans/Brits/Haitians/Russian spies, and trying pays off. Almost anyone can look good if they put effort into their appearance, and the French are way into doing so.

So there you go, now you can look like a gorgeous French lady, with the added bonus of shaved armpits! (I’m just kidding, they apparently do that. Except they wax them instead. So get on their level.)

Be a Slut

I am a firm believer in being a frisky kitten with your lover, but this PostSecret terrified me to my very core.

Please, whoever you are, don’t do it. Because if it’s me*, you’re a dick, and speaking of dicks, I think I have a few pictures of that floating around. And if it’s not me, you’re still an asshole. The only reason you should ever keep pictures of an ex is if you’re still in love with them and you’re going to do something dramatic and romantic to win them back; otherwise, you’re just a creepy dude who I’m pretty sure cries while he masturbates to old pictures of me.

And that’s just not a good time. For anyone.

*Okay, so I totally just realized that PostSecret is made up of blacked-out pictures of a naked chick whose body and such could not be further from mine–thank God, no offense to that lady. So, phew. I mean obviously I didn’t really think it was about me. Obviously. Of course. Ahem.

Gimme Your Purse…So I Can Photograph It

A while ago, I stumbled across this cool thing, where some smart (and really nosy) dude got strangers to empty out their purses and bags. And then he robbed them. Just kidding (or maybe not, I don’t know his life); he actually took portraits of the people and then portraits of the contents of their bags, all artistically.

It’s really awesome, but it’s obviously super fake. First of all, he picked the biggest hipsters he could possibly find; if you scroll through them all 100% of them are too hip to be square. Secondly, there is no way that people actually carry this shit in their bags. Look at this girl, for example:

Um, yeah. You don’t have any old napkins with phone numbers on them or crumpled-up receipts, but you have a pinwheel in the shape of a flower? And Love Letters of Great Women? Please. Okay, I mean, besides that pinwheel thing (what is that?), I guess the contents of her purse are realistic, in theory. What seems fake to me is a.) How new and sleek and pretty all of them are–e.g., the book doesn’t have crumpled corners the way books that I carry in my bags do, and b.) The fact that there is absolutley no random junk in there. Or maybe hipsters are just really neat?

Either way, even if it’s totally staged, it’s kind of cool, and it made me think of all the stuff I have in my purse. But I’m too lazy to dump it all out and take a picture with an old analog camera or something, so I’m just going to tell you.

The Contents of the WildHeart’s Purse (With Almost 100% Honesty!)

1.) Paper. Junky junky paper junk. Unlike these neat-ass people, I usually leave receipts and envelopes and other stuff in my purse. Currently, the paper includes a paycheck, a map of the Bronx Zoo, and some sheets torn out of a waitress’ ordering pad.

2.) My phone. Obviously.

3.) Sunglasses. Also obviously.

4.) Burt’s Bees lip gloss, three different kinds. I’m nothing if not loyal.

5.) Some pens. Not all of them work, but who cares.

6.) A bunch of lose jewelry and bobby pins, mostly earrings.

7.) My iPod Nano, in a cool tiny bag from Mexico.

8.) My money, in a tiny bag from the Icing that has held up surprisingly well considering it’s from…the Icing.

9.) A mirror shaped like Hello Kitty’s face, which was $1 and doesn’t work very well (it’s super dingy and kind of like a funhouse mirror).

10.) A little manicure kit.

11.) A miniature first-aid kit.

12.) Bath & Body Works blueberry hand sanitizer.

13.) A tiny figurine from Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends that I got out of a fifty-cent machine.

14.) My Adventure Time wallet (a gift from the Dude), which doesn’t hold my money but all my IDs.

15.) Orbit cinnamon-flavored gum.

16.) Lipstick in a peachy pink.

17.) A Glock.

Haha, just kidding about the last one…or am I? You’ll never know, since I’m too lazy to photograph it.

Seriously, though, doing this is fun. The only non-fun part is realizing that you really, seriously need to clean your purse out–half because it’s full of junk, and half because if someone stops you on the street to take a picture of you and your purse, you want to look even better than these hipster bitches.

Fall in Line, Summer Sluts

I am excited for Fall Sexy.

What is Fall Sexy, you ask? (I heard you. You can’t deny it. You’re sitting there with your hands on the keyboard, talking out loud. That’s kind of weird. But doesn’t it feel like we’re having a conversation right now, except it’s like a conversation with a psychic on account of the fact that I heard you say, “What is Fall Sexy?” and I’m probably three hundred miles away? Oh, wait, you didn’t ask about Fall Sexy? Well, you sure have stuck in here reading this whole thing, then. Kudos.)

Sorry, I got a little carried away trying to convince certain People of the Internet that I’m a psychic. Anyway, Fall Sexy. Fall is just this great wonderful fabulous season, for a million reasons–it’s the perfect temperature, the air feels crisp, it’s beautiful, and everything just seems fucking great in the fall. But one of the best things is that it’s the perfect time to dress like a minxy vixen.

See, look at it this way: Winter is too cold to wear anything a little slutty outdoors. No strappy heels (and no heels at all, if you live in Snowhell like me), no dresses, and everything else covered up under a giant coat. And Summer is great to wear short-shorts and flirty little sundresses, but it’s way too hot to swan around in garters or long sleeves, both of which can be sodamnsexy. And fuck Spring, that shit is muddy.

Which leaves us with glorious glorious Fall. You can wear skirts, or you can wear pants. You can wear a whorish dress and then make it [a little] classier with a cardigan. And, my favorite part of all, you can wear hosiery. I go buck-fucking-wild with my stockings and thigh-highs and tights in the fall, because a.) you can wear the shortest skirts ever and no one can say a word, and b.) these things are sex on legs (literally).

Plus, in case you couldn’t tell from the way I kind of word-fucked it earlier, Fall is my favorite season. And everyone looks good when they’re happy. (Awww, look how I ended on that sweet sentimental note! Now go buy some whore outfits, you delicious slatterns. [Also, my goodness, there are a lot of synonyms for “slut.” But stop reading and go shopping, you trollop!])

Come On, People

So, I heard this rumor, and it’s horrible. It’s right up there with “Santa isn’t real!” (bitch, just because his handwriting looks just like my mother’s doesn’t mean anything) and “You can get AIDs from mosquitoes” (trust me, once you think that you can’t un-think it).

The rumor is that some ladies have never had an orgasm.

Now, there are instances where that’s okay. For nuns, say (although personally I feel like Jesus is a nice dude who would totally forgive you if you rub one out to the hot vicar, but I don’t want anyone to pick up any nasty habits…SEE WHAT I DID THERE? Nun puns, I love ’em). Or for fourteen-year-olds (to be fair, however, if you’re fourteen and having sex anyway, you might as well have great sex).

But unless you’re a fourteen-year-old nun, that is just not acceptable. Not having orgasms is like not being able to feel sunshine, or pet a dog, or wake up in a cozy warm bed. It’s like having stumps instead of legs when all your friends are marathoners. It’s like getting slapped in the face every time you open a car door. It’s like…well, lots of bad things. Orgasms are great. Greaty great great. But I guess there are some women who just can’t come, no matter what they do; it’s called female sexual dysfunction or some shit.

To all those ladies: I am so, so sorry. Maybe go to some doctors and stuff. But for everyone else, think about those people, and then think, “MY LIFE IS AWESOME.” And then go have sex in a bunch of fabulously flexible positions (can I just overshare here and tell the People of the Internet about how much exercise-ball sex I had this week? A LOT. Do it, it’s great. You can like flip upside-down and wrap your legs into a pretzel and it doesn’t even hurt). Come on, people, do it! (Ha.)

Every Celebrity I’ve Ever Been Compared to, Ever

Something about my face makes people compare me to other people. I don’t know why, but I get a lot of “you look like blankity-blank” nonsense. Which is usually flattering, but on the rare occasions it hasn’t been I just stare at them while trying really hard to look attractive so that they’ll go, “Oh, you know what, you don’t actually look like [ugly] blank, you look like [super sexy] blank!” And then I will stop holding my face perfectly still and say, “Why thank you.”

My favorite one to get is Brigitte Bardot, for obvious reasons. She’s French, she’s drop-dead gorgeous (which is a really creepy expression, but I love it anyway), and of all the people I’ve been compared to I like her the best. She’s my style icon, to boot (by which I mean, my excuse for wearing lots of cat’s-eye liner and high-wasited things–no one argues when you say, “Well, Brigitte Bardot did it!” And if they do argue they’re a dick).

Plus, we have a lot in common, looks-wise: we both have a squarish jawline (so attractive–but I don’t really mind it, because if Minnie Driver got into movies with that octagon she calls a face than not having a perfect oval head seems a small price to pay for the rest of us), big eyes, big lips, and blonde hair (which I cut, intentionally, with Bardot bangs). And if this all sounds really conceited, fuck off, because if you’re still reading this it was conceited from the first sentence so don’t go getting all shirty about it now. (God, I love calling people shirty. It’s not even an American expression, so whenever I say it to my friends no one understands. But it is GLORIOUS. I hope “pants-y” comes around as a synonym for “uptight tool.”) What was I saying? Oh yeah, how me and BB are incredibly attractive twins–our heights are an inch apart, and if the Internet is to be trusted, she’s a 36B to my 34 (although she looks a bit more equipped in the bazoonga department than that to me, but what am I, a traveling boob expert?).

Long, self-absorbed story short, I like being compared to her because it makes me feel prettyyyy, so pretty, something something something prettyyyyy and gayyyyyy!

But there are other individuals I’ve been compared to, and some of those are less flattering. By a lot. When I was a lot younger (and, I like to think, before my face was fully formed into the glorious object it is today), I got Uma Thurman a lot. I can still, tragically, see why some people might say that, but I haven’t gotten in years. And I once got “Paris Hilton, but without the nose!” Also when I was younger, I got compared to Hilary Duff, but in all fairness that was by a group of black girls at a charter school who rarely saw white people (and that’s not racism, just a statement of fact). I rarely saw black people when I was younger, but since I’m not a dick I didn’t call them all Raven Symone.


Those are all the less-attractive celebrities I’ve been compared to, unless someone said something horrible like Rosie O’Donnell and I blocked it from my memory or something. Besides Brigitte Bardot, I get compared to Scarlett Johannsen sometimes, which is highly complementary but not crazy-accurate (although any time I get bored and do some “celebrity face match” I get her), and Sarah Michelle Gellar (also not accurate, but I love Buffy so I’m okay with it), and once, very misguidedly, Kiera Knightly.

So now the People of the Internet know (kind of) what I look like. And that I am extremely vain and never forget a compliment. Maybe if someone does a face mashup of BriUmParHilarScarSarKie it will look just like me. (Although if you do that, a. You’re creepy, b. You have an extreme amount of time on your hands, and c. Please send it to me.)

Eat Me

Okay, so I used to have a bit of an issue with food. Nothing cray-cray full-on anorexic, but it would go a little something like this: eat only dinners (small ones) all week, then eat a bunch of junk one day, feel horrible about myself, and resume not eating much until the next week when all seven days’ worth of hunger built up again. Besides the days when I ate nothing, my proudest day was eating only a serving-size of Triscuits (which is 4, in case you’re curious).

That was a while ago, about seven years, to be exact (holy fuckadoodledoo, I feel old). It wasn’t super horrible, I guess, as far as eating issues go–I lost my period and prided myself on staying in the double-digits of the weight range, which was not so great because I was (and am) tall, but I never grew lanugo or started cutting myself or wearing tiny fisherman’s sweaters. And after a while I just stopped doing it, because hey, I was hungry.

But at the risk of being a little over-dramatic, it has fucked up my relationship with food ever since. (Also, I hate that phrase, even though I just used it. “Relationship”? The only people who have “relationships” with food are fat, because the rest of us have real-life people for that. But you get the idea.)  Even though I started eating normally again, I still hated myself for every single thing I put in my mouth (that sounds ridiculously emo, I know. Fuck you guys, go eat something) and felt guilty after every meal. But that shitty side effect (mostly) went away.

But the past couple of weeks, I feel like I just got sucked back into a tube of oh-fuckkery, as far as eating is concerned. I’ve been working out every morning and stuff, which is good, but now I’m also geeking on calories and whatnot. SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I TRY TO BE HEALTHY?

In all honesty, though, this is no buneo. It’s even more fucked up because I don’t want to go back to that, but in some horrible way I do; it’s like an old friend. If you’re nodding in agreement, you are also fucked up.

This isn’t normally the type of thing I post on here, but it’s my blog, and if blogs weren’t made for posting dramatic self-absorbed accounts of personal weirdness, then what are they for?!? Okay, fine, fine, I’ll post something about sex after this.

The 90s Are Back…With (Scrunchie) Vengeance

So, something horrifying is happening: I’m witnessing the first so-old-it’s-new-again fashion revival of my lifetime.

You know what I mean. Stuff from the 80s has come back in style (read: neon colors, those weird jackets everybody seemed to wear back then, cocaine), and stuff from the 70s (stacked bangle bracelets, resort wear, platform shoes), and obviously a lot of stuff from before then is just classic and will always look good (a hat tip to you, Brigitte Bardot).

And if you’re thinking, well, fuck you, I don’t see anyone walking around wearing neon jackets and platform shoes, you either need to make more fashionable friends or crack a magazine. Also, obviously, the stuff that’s in style now isn’t straight-up out-of-the-80s-can; it’s just stuff that’s clearly influenced by those wacky decades past. Case and point.

Kreayshawn is one 80s-ass bitch.

But all of that stuff is before I was born, for the most part, so I was like, phew! I won’t have to see people walking around in overalls and weird floral prints with giant scrunchies in their wet-styled hair! The 90s won’t come back in style for a looooong time!

I was wrong.

The above picture is from Miu Miu’s Fall/Winter 2011 campaign, and it doesn’t really get more 90s than that. Strong-ass eyebrows, an unflattering coral lipstick, a dress with embroidered flowers and a hint of veleteen-ness, frizz-waved hair, and of course, that quilted bag.

I mean, whatever, fashion is nothing if not cyclical, so I guess the 90s had to rear their ugly head sometime. And I am totally on board with crop-tops and high-waisted stuff. But I swear to Baby Jesus, if I see someone wearing butterfly clips, I’m going to personally rip every single one out of their head.