New Year’s Resolutions

Ten percent of all New Year’s Resolutions fail, according to some magazine I recently leafed through. New Year’s Resolutions are like trendy clothes–you’re crazy about them at first, start to get a little tired and bored of them, and finally, you ditch them. Let’s face it, challenging yourself to start the Insanity workout the day after the year’s biggest binge-drinking fest is not exactly a stellar idea.

Which is why you should just resolve to do easy stuff! Exercising, diets, doing that whole no-shampoo hair thing–these are all great, but they’re lifestyle changes, and they need to be contingent upon a real desire to change, not a drunken promise you made on December 31st. In my humble opinion, New Year’s Resolutions should be fun. Now, I personally don’t make any, because I’m not a nerd, but if that’s your thing, I’ve compiled a few you might try. Ditch your new gym membership, put down that lean salmon, and listen up.

New Year’s Resolutions Anyone Can Actually Stick To!

  1. Try a new hairstyle once every week. All year. It’s going to be hilarious (after the usuals, you’re going to have to get creative–hope you look good in cornrows!) and a great excuse to spend tons of money on hair products.
  2. Invent your own signature cocktail (and then teach it to the bartenders every time you go out). When the “[Your Name Here]” becomes a thing, and all the sorority girls are ordering it at the pub, you’ll thank me.
  3. Get a pet. Animals are extremely funny and do weird, entertaining things all the time. If you hate animals, get a cat–they’ll hate you too, and they’ll still be entertaining!
  4. Learn a stupid skill that will get you laid. You know what drunk people love? Stupid tricks. Not everyone can do a cartwheel or spit sunflower seeds into a shot glass–these are life skills! 2013 is your year, baby.
  5. Eat a food you’ve never tried every month, for all 12 of ’em. And I mean never. Here comes uglyfruit, zebra meat, and caviar (for those with a previously unsophisticated palette). You’re welcome!

Ok, go!

Why Kids Suck

Okay, let me preface this by saying I love kids, which might seem totally at odds with the title of this post. What I mean is, having kids sucks. Kids, themselves, the actual human units known as “children,” are pretty great. They’re cute and they say stupid hilarious things and they’re more honest than any adults I’ve ever met (for better or worse).

BUT. But but but but but. Kids who aren’t just human units and happen to be your human units, whole people for whose lives you are entirely responsible, suck. And I know that they are miracles, and they allegedly turn one into a giant love-machine, and “you don’t even know yourself until you have a child,” and blah blah blah.

That’s all great, but I would rather just not know myself if I have to have a child to do it. For people who want kids, that’s great. But for people who don’t, child-havers, please stop judging us as sub-par humans ’cause we’re just not into it. There are plenty of reasons to have a kid, apparently (I’m pretty sure I’m missing any and all maternal/desire-to-carry-on-the-human-race genes), but all I see are reasons to not have a kid. Such as:

  1. They are a 24/7 job. You can’t just shove them away and say, “Well, fuuuuuck this! I’ve had enough of screaming and puking and pooping, and I just want to relax.” You can’t just not take them to school, and listen to their horrible teenage attitudes, and suffer through their ridiculous girlfriend/boyfriend choices. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, you are saddled with responsibility that you can never, ever shake, unless Child Protective Services gets involved.
  2. They are expeeeeensive. Money money monn-ay…all gone.
  3. They ruin your body. (Men, fuck you.) They rip up your lady parts, make your flat stomach scarred and saggy, drag your boobs to the floor (haha I typo’d that as “boops” at first…can that be new slang?), etc. You can always tell a mom from a non-mom unless they had that sucker when they were 15 and bounced back like a rubber band.
  4. They never care about you as much as you care about them. Sure, they love you as much, but they don’t worry about you every second of every day and think about your well-being all the time and how their everylittledecision might affect you. That kind of sounds like having a boyfriend who’s just not that into you, except you can never break up.
  5. If you fuck them up, you fuck. Them. Up. They will be in therapy forever, crying into a couch cushion, just because you scared them with a Bobo doll or had a fight in front of them. They’re like little sponges that you have to squeeze ever-so-gently, or you’ll leave them dried up and bent out of shape forever. (Damn, I’m proud of that analogy.)

And those are just the negative reasons! The positive reasons go on and on and on:

  1. Hot young body for years longer!
  2. Tons of extra money to spend on yourself! Trips, clothes, wine, cars, trips!
  3. No one to look after–more alone time!
  4. More sex!
  5. More drinking!
  6. More motivation to take up a cool hobby when you’re older–salsa dancing? Pottery? Windsurfing?

That’s the general idea, you see. The all time, number-one reason I don’t want kids is because I am selfish. To have a child, you give up a huge part of yourself, a huge piece of your life, and a world of possibility you might never get back. It’s the most selfless thing you could ever do…and, ladies and gentleman, I applaud you. And I’ll keep on applauding you when I’m 35, sitting in a comfy living room painting my nails and admiring my new expensive clothes, with not a binky or a bottle in sight. Cheers!

A Prayer

I heard this quote today for the first time, and it was so fitting I had to post it.

“A prayer for the wild at heart, kept in cages.” —Tennessee Williams

I mean, that’s good. Angelina Jolie even has it tattooed on her arm, and she is pretty cool, so that must mean it’s an awesome quote, right? (Also, I just found out she’s bisexual, which I am not, but I think I could make an exception for her. She’s Angelina-God-damn-Jolie, after all.)

Seriously though, I love it, and if it weren’t totally lame and star-copying I would like it as my next tattoo.

Alas, I’ll just have to keep re-writing it in Sharpie every day, like Kat Von D does with her sleeves.*

*I made that up. But admit it–for just a split, split second there, you were like, “Whaaaat? That’s crazy!”**

**Or maybe you were like, “She definitely made that up. What a stupid thing to say.”***

***Or, option number three, maybe you are a robot sent from space to read blogs, and so you have no opinion whatsoever, and in fact just robo-Googled “Kat Von D” with your robo-hands so you would know what I was talking about.****

****I might create an infinite loop with these asterisks if I don’t stop now.

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.

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.)


Cosmo Advice Gone Horribly Wrong

Let me start by saying I am a big fan of Cosmo. I mean, it’s a good magazine. It’s dirty, it has lots of pretty pictures, and they usually have at least one column that makes me laugh (um, I’m looking at you, Lucky, the worst women’s magazine ever created).

But their sex advice can be fucking dangerous.

First of all, why do they talk about using your teeth so much? Like, I don’t care if you say, “Very, very, very gently run the edge of your teeth down his shaft,” because however gently you do it, the guy is going to scream, “HOLY FUCK STOP GRATING MY DICK; IT’S NOT A CARROT, YOU FREAK!” And that’s not going to get you a second date. But somehow, every time I open up a Cosmo, there is at least one tip about “nibbling his balls” or biting something any normal guy wouldn’t want bitten. You know what’s going to happen, Cosmo? Some little fifteen-year-old who’s never given head is going to read that, ruin her boyfriend’s junk, and be scarred for life (just like the guy’s dick).

And then some of it is just downright weird. Jamie’s stellar sex advice is “Make two fists around my shaft and twist them in opposite directions as fast as you can.” Really, Jamie? You like getting Indian burns on your dick? I mean, maybe, but I’m 99.9% sure half the “Sex Tips From Guys!” were written by a bunch of drunk frat guys giggling, “Do you really think they’re going to print this stuff? I mean, holy fuck, who wants a girl to punch them in the sack?” And then sluts everywhere are ball-tapping their boyfriends.

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for trying new things. But when the “new things” include scattering marbles on the bed before you get it on (seriously), I’m just not game (you know what I don’t want to go to the doctor for? Having a marble stuck in my vajangles).

So, before girls everywhere are chomping down on penises and forcing their boyfriends to drown themselves during sex, Cosmo should do themselves a favor and have a real, normal dude veto their more psycho sex tips. Or, you know, hire someone who’s not retarded to proofread them first (NO GUY WANTS TEETH ON HIS DICK, PEOPLE).

Pickle Sleep Huh What?

I am so tired that I can’t even function. I am just a ball of string bouncing along. I feel like my head is a fishbowl full of words that are just clanking around nonsensically. Jogoblin neehow plus! That really seems like a sentence right now.

Why am I even on here, instead of sleeping? Oh yeah, responsibilities. I hate those naughty naughty things.


If I Had a Million Dollars, I’d Be Rich (But I Digress)

If I had a million dollars, I would not buy you a house, or a fur coat (but not real fur, ’cause that’s cruel), or an exotic pet.

Seriously, though. I wouldn’t buy any of the things in that song. No offense, Internet. It’s just that I already have a lot of plans for what I’d purchase with my fictional bucks. It’s a pastime of mine, daydreaming about all the stuff I’d have if I was rich. (What do rich people daydream about, do you think? Because they sure as fuck aren’t jonesing for Kraft mac-n-cheese or a twin-size bed. But I digress.)

If you eat caviar every day, this is a delicacy.

So here it is. The official WildHearts if-I-get-rich shopping list.

  1. Weed. Lots and lots and lots of weed. And a beautiful bong, and a cute little bowl, and a gorgeous vape. In fact, I would have a special room in my mansion (see Number 2) just to hotbox.
  2. A mansion.
  3. A butler named Jenkins. Or Watson. If he has a different name, I will force him to change it.
  4. A bunch of fluffy, friendly dogs and cats.
  5. A Porsche Spyder, and a Mini Cooper.

I probably put too many pictures of people smoking on here, but whether you’re down with the ganj or not, you have to admit that smoke is very aesthetically pleasing. Besides, I thought to myself, What would the lovely People of the Internet prefer, a photo of an old British butler, or a pretty girl? I made a judgment call. But, once more, I digress.

Other things I would like include a maid, a fennel fox called Sebastian, really nice leather boots, headphones that don’t just indiscriminately blast music to the world while barely reaching my ears (thanks, iPod), and a Hello Kitty water dispenser. So watch out, world. When I make my millions, you’re gonna…you’re gonna…well, you’re not gonna hear Ke$ha blasting from my head when I walk by, that’s what!

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.

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