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!

Do You Remember Your Weekend?

Hello, darlings, it’s been a while! I’ve been tragically neglecting this blog because my laptop died (funeral services will be held today at 3:00 pm, BYOB) and using the man’s computer is a bit of a drag–it’s a Mac Mini hooked up to a TV and the screen is so far away from my weak eyes. First World Problems, ahoy!

Anyway, how areeeee you all? Still sexy, I presume. Or drowned in a river of spam (and I don’t mean the canned meat–I came back after my hiatus to find a bucketload of comments and was so excited only to find they were all spammity spam spam spam). How was your weekend?

Mine was like a fire in a circus–intense. Friday was a bestie’s birthday, and I drank two cranberry vodkas at my house (with twist of lime, of course), then we went out and I had a Bahama Mama and half of the two GIANT complimentary birthday margaritas that particular establishment offered (you’re  only supposed to get one but we’re very convincing), then at one thirty we stumbled on to the next place with intentions of a free Das Boot. We both hate beer so we were going to give it to our gentlemen escorts and friends, but as it turned out, this place ALSO gave away margaritas. So naturally I had a White Russian–fine end-of-the-night-drink–half a mint-chocolate shot (don’t ask why half), and most of that even-GIANTER margarita. It probably will surprise no one that I woke up in my slutty clothes, with my purse still on, the birthday girl asleep on my bathroom floor, and three boys sprawled out in the living room (one of them snuggling his head on my 10-lb weights). 

Yesterday, I slept until 3:00 pm to kill my massive hangover (milk thistle helped), went to the movies (Taken 2–I would literally get kidnapped just to fuck Liam Neeson), and was somehow still out until one-thirty. Hope your weekend was as smashing! I promise a real post about something other than my drunken adventures soon.

I’m Hungover

You know what’s fun? Bar-hopping and flirting with all the tall manly bouncers. You know what’s not fun? The morning after, when it feels like the chestburster from Alien lives inside you, except it’s made of puke.

I would like to kill myself just to not feel like a giant brick with a stomachache, but if I did, I don’t know how you would all survive without my beautiful posts to get you through the day. And being the wonderful girl that I am, I just couldn’t let that happen, so I guess I’ll live to write another day.

But seriously, vodka cranberries and Bahama Mamas, you are vicious and I hate you. (Until next weekend, and then we can kiss and make up.) And as for you stupid lucky non-hungover Readers: THIS.

Do You, Unattractive, Take Handsome to Be Your Lawfully Wedded Husband?

I think everyone knows an “unattractive guy, pretty girl” couple. It’s just the way of the world. The Unattractive Guy is probably funny, and failing that, he is probably sweet, nice, and doesn’t mention his thing for BDSM choking on the first date. And the Pretty Girl is sick of hot douchebags, and so she goes for personality instead and lives happily ever after with Unattractive Guy.

If they turned around, you'd be shocked by how ugly he is.

It’s just life. Boys are shallower, and girls care about personality more. And there are exceptions and blah-blah-blah, but the general rule is that the dude is going to date the hot chick, and the chick is going to date the nice, funny guy. Every time some (usually hideously ugly) man posts on Facebook: “The good guy never gets the girl,” I think to myself, “Well, sweetheart, even she has limits.” I mean, a pretty girl will date a nice, plain-looking or even slightly-ugly-but-plays-it-off-well-with-a-beard guy, but if you’re fugly and fat (and nice), that’s a whole new plate of pie.

But the Unattractive Girl, Handsome Guy couple? That is way less typical. If you see a pretty girl walking around with a plain-t0-slightly-ugly guy, you probably don’t do a double take, unless you’re turning around to stare at her butt. But when you see a plan-to-ugly girl walking around with some handsome, muscular fellow, you think to yourself, “Whaaathefuck?” It’s weird. I mean, I’m happy for Unattractive Girl, although if I was dating way up I’d be constantly afraid someone not-ugly would swoop in and steal my man.

If you haven’t seen the UG-HG coupling in nature, well, you’re in luck, because last night I had the good fortune to witness the very beginning of an UG-HG relationship! That’s right, folks–The WildHearts strapped on her explorer hat and headed into the wild to witness this all go down. (Or, you know, I was at the bar casually sipping the world’s most expensive Appletini and saw it all play out.)

Handsome Guy was not my type, but he was definitely a lot of other girls’ dreamboat: tall, cropped blonde hair, handsome face and big muscly arms, one of which had a non-tribal tattoo on it. He was good-looking in that all-American Army boy kind of way, and he knew it. And all these little drunk sluts were flitting around him like whore-moths to a light, and what did he do?

Mack on the Plainest of Janes next to him at the bar. I mean, I am not exaggerating when I say that this girl could’ve stepped into a wallpaper and faded away completely. The only reason I was even aware of her existence was because it was so shocking that Handsome Guy was hitting on her. She had really lank, limp hair the color of mice poo, a plain, tired face, and a weak chin, which all matched her hideous grandma sweater and bad posture. I mean, she could be sweet as pie and all that shit, but that is what she looked like, before anyone accuses me of Level 10 Bitchiness.

And Handsome Guy LOVED her. I am not kidding; he wanted to drop to one knee and propose to her with a bottle cap. He didn’t even seem drunk. He laughed at everything she said, never so much as glanced at any of the twats screaming with drunk excitement a foot away, and basically looked like a little puppy wiggling at a new bone. In fact,  Unattractive Girl actually seemed less interested.

I guess my point is, it was weird? And everyone should date who they love, but if you’re so funky-looking that some bitchy blogger writes a post about you the next day, you should maybe not go to crowded bars in SalVo sweaters that probably smell like mothballs? And everyone should drink Appletinis if they have a $20 to spare?

What Google Thinks About You

Hey there! Are you a snoop? Would you consider yourself “nosy”?  Do you share a computer? Do you enjoy invading people’s privacy and/or learning things about them without their knowledge? Or, failing that, do you want to know more about yourself based on the ramblings of a crazy random Internet girl (me)? Well, then, this is the post for you!

What Your Google Searches Say About You (You Sick Freak, You)

If you commonly search things like: bars with no covers, beer, mixed drink special at Blarney’s Pub, how to make own mojitos, cheap vodka, my x-byofriedn’s neumbr becux heis nit nioce

Then it means: You’re probably a raging alcoholic, typically college-aged, but you don’t realize it because everyone you know is also a raging alcoholic! You might also be a slut.

If you commonly search things like: boobs, Asian girls, jugs, girl-on-girl, ostrich porn, live sex videos

Then it means: You’re really into ostrich porn. Oh, and maybe also other kinds. You’re probably a seventeen-year-old boy, or a twenty-seven-year-old boy, or a thirty-seven-year-old boy.

If you commonly search things like: The Wild Hearts WordPress, stupid blogs, blogs where girl talks about dumb things

Then it means: You’re awesome.

Also, this is the "pictures of people with animal heads" post. Just in case you were wondering.

Wasn’t that helpful? I hope you have learned all about yourselves, People of the Internet. As ever, I’m happy to assist you.

 

Prom, Anyone?

There should be proms for grown-ups.

I mean, seriously. Why is it that once you graduate high school, there aren’t special parties for no reason? Being an adult is great, don’t get me wrong. But there is a big difference between wearing a little black dress out for cocktails and feeling like a princess in a giant gown. And yeah, you get to do that when you get married, but you can only tie the knot like ten times, and around number five, people aren’t going to RSVP. So there should just be like a yearly Big People Fun Dress Up Party Dance Night (or BPFDUPDN).

Besides, teenagers can’t appreciate prom. Half of them are totally ruining their photos with hideous braces-covered smiles, and the other half are too busy making out with awkward boys/girls in braces to really soak up the moment. And they can’t even drink during–some shots would really make it easier for the awkward high school set to hold each other’s clammy hands while they “dance.”

Long story short, I would like an excuse to wear a ball gown. And since I’m not friends with anybody who throws “balls” (well, I am, but not the kind of ball you’re thinking of), I would like someone to create this event.

And if you’re saying, “Fuck that, my high school prom sucked,” well, don’t you think it’ll much better with booze and girls who actually put out? Plus, you don’t have to worry about your parents hearing you come, which is always a bonus.

WHOOOOOO, I’m gonna start online shopping for my BPFDUPDN dress. Someone else take care of the pesky details like the venue and the invites, ‘kay?

I think I'm buying this one.

Put This in Your Cookbook

How to Have a Good St. Patty’s Day: the Recipe

Ingredients:

  • Slutty green clothes (1 pair)
  • Alcohol (6 shots/3 mixed drinks; add more to taste)
  • Loud bar with grindy dance music and strobe lights (1)
  • Friends (any number; must be flavorful)
  • Money (a lot)

Directions:

  1. Put on slutty clothes with friends.
  2. Go to bar.
  3. Buy mixed drinks. Mix them liberally with friends and bar.
  4. Buy shots. Shake vigorously on the dance floor.
  5. Black out.

Seriously, it’s foolproof. Way easier than whipping up some souffle or whatever-the-fuck with Martha Stewart-level difficulty and weird foreign ingredients.

Story Time

So, dearest Internet, I apologize for my lack of posting, but I’ve been on vacation. And I’ve been distracted by lovely things like calzones, and alcohol, and running around in the freezing cold.

Which means my brain has not exactly been focused enough (or sober enough) to come up with any great stories for you lovelies. But I’m working on it, promise (just as soon as I finish this drink).

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).

A Heartfelt Drunk Letter to Santa

So I just watched the Glee Christmas episode and it definitely put me in the holiday spirit. Mostly because it was about Santa, and I love Santa. But then it reminded me that I have to go Christmas shopping, and that killed my deck-the-halls buzz.

I. HATE. CHRISTMAS. SHOPPING. I mean, I’m not a dick. I love buying people presents, and I love shopping, and I love Christmas. It should add up to a full-on orgasmic mall experience. I even love stores around the holidays, because they have twinkly window displays and the mall has a big tall tree and a chubby mall Santa.

But. Buying some people gifts is SO HARD. Take my dad, for instance. His interests include Boring Things and Other Boring Things. And he has all the equipment necessary to take part in said Boring Things. What am I supposed to get him? A pencil holder made out of a soup can? A hand print turned into a reindeer? I wish I hadn’t used all those brilliant ideas back in my youth, because now I’m fucked.

I mean, I am easy to shop for. I like almost everything. You would almost have to try to find a gift that I wouldn’t like. And even if you managed (say, by purchasing a life-sized Hitler doll that can raise its arm and sing holiday songs) I would still pretend I liked it, so it wouldn’t matter anyway. But it seems like everyone I know has such weird specific interests, and I have such a tiny amount of money, and it is just basic math:

(No $$$) * (Friends w/ Specific Interests) * (Family w/ Specific Interests) * (# of Gifts) = FUCKED

If only everyone I knew was super jonesing for things I am good at making. Like origami cranes, and bad jokes. At least with guys it’s easy, because you just dress up as Super Slutty Santa and do things to them that you’d do to a candy cane. (Unless you’re a freak who bites candy canes, and then you are in trouble, because not only will that be a really shitty gift but you will also scar them for life as far as the holidays are concerned.) Although I actually don’t go that gift route with guys, because unless you’re a frigid bitch that’s the same kind of thing they’re getting on a regular, except that you’re dressed as Santa. So fuck, there is yet another present I need to buy.

I’m just going to drown my tears in a vat of heavily spiked eggnog and write Santa a heartfelt drunk letter asking him to buy all my presents for me. Cheers!

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