Crush That Girl

Everyone has a girl crush. Guys and gay girls, sure, but everyone else too–straight girls and gay guys and the people who fall somewhere in between. See, the reason is that a “girl crush” doesn’t have to be sexual, and usually isn’t, so EVERYONE has one. Girls are magical creatures, kind of like unicorns but with soft lips and shiny hair instead of a weird deformity in the middle of their head. Personally, I think it’s impossible not to have a crush on at least one.

Mine is my girl Candice, which I agree is probably narcissistic since I’ve been compared to her on more than one occasion. But far be it from me to make Girl Crush rules–if your girl crush happens to be the fox you see in the mirror every day, more power to you. But COME ON–look at Ms. Swanepoel. I don’t care who you are, she is gorge.

Now, I pretty much have a GC on Candy because she looks like a human Barbie and she has a really awesome accent that should be used to record soothing fall-asleep tapes. And girl has some serious yoga flex. But usually, people’s Girl Crushes are a little more complex. Take the most girl-crushed-upon girl of all time, the indie darling Zooey Deschanel.

Now, yes, people like Zooey for her looks. As with most (but not all) girl crushes, it’s all about appearance. Zooey is a normal-looking pretty girl with big boobs, so naturally a lot of people like her. But toss on the thick bangs, vintage dresses, and the occasional pair of quirky-cute glasses, and Zooey is the world’s Girl Crush extraordinaire. I’m not hating at all, I just don’t happen to have a GC on Zooey so that drooling, hearts-a-pitter-patter feeling Crushers have is absent in me. Which means I find it a little annoying when people squeal, “Ugh, I just love Zooey, she’s so unique!”

That brings us to…the dark side of Girl Crushes. When you have a total GC on someone, and your best friend says, “Oh, really? I don’t like her,” and you stare daggers into them because OBVIOUSLY THE PERSON YOU CRUSH ON IS PERFECT…yeah, that’s when it’s gone too far. Then you need to stop bidding on their used tissues on eBay, making a scrapbook of their tabloid appearances, and doodling their surname in your checkbook. A girl crush is just that–a crush. Obsession? Come on, now you’re just creepy!

Celeb-brattys

All celebrities must kind of be assholes brats. I mean, unless you’re the bestfuckingpersonever, I don’t see how all the endless adoration doesn’t go to you head. (It wouldn’t go to mine, of course, since I’m so great, but I digress.) People dedicate hours to making fan pages for you, they cry if they meet you, they spend $10 to hang a poster of you over their bed. You are larger-than-life to the average person, and if that’s not enough to make you a raging narcissist, all your people–agents, friends, directors, show hosts, journalists–fall all over you to give in to your every need.

But probably the most brat-inducing thing about being a celebrity is that people. Fucking. Love. You. I don’t mean all the stuff written above–that they love seeing you, and your work, and blah blah blah. In addition to that, they love YOU. The human. They want to know every little thing about you–your favorite color, how much you weigh, what your childhood was like, what you eat for a midnight snack, what movies are your favorites. They love you so God damn much they want to crawl inside your skin and be you. And that’s a lot of power for someone like, say, Lindsay Lohan.

It’s also the thing that I think (besides the free clothes) would be the best about being a celebrity. You get to talk about yourself all the time and answer stupid questions–that’s fun! Why the hell else would everyone take an hour back in 2003 to fill out those 300-question surveys on MySpace? WE LOVE OURSELVES. So, that shit would be cray.

And so I’m gonna do it! You should too, my regular-ass readers, because let’s face it–we’re all pretty and talented and interesting enough to be famous, we just don’t have famous parents or a coke habit (I hope). So feel free to fill out the Celebratty Full-of-Yourself Questionnaire in the comments–I promise, it’s almost as fun as having the paparazzi stalk your every move.

  1. Place of birth. I’ll never tell. What?! I’m not the famous one here.
  2. Number of tattoos, and meanings. One–freedom, beauty, and love.
  3. Favorite food. Spicy tuna roll.
  4. Pets? One kitten.
  5. Worst thing about being famous. Free drugs.
  6. Best thing about being famous. Free drugs.
  7. Favorite designer. Bags, Balenciaga. Shoes, Louboutin. Dresses, Oscar de la Renta.
  8. Favorite childhood memory. The lake.
  9. Inspirational quote. “C’est la vie.”

This is dumb, now that I wrote it. I’m going to post it anyway. C’est la vie!

Fall Favorites

Fall is my favorite season. It’s the perfect temperature–hoodie weather!–and everything is beautiful (extra so to me, since reds and golds are some of my top colors). Plus, the best parts are that you can wear anything. Literally anything! It’s still warm enough for skirts with cozy cardigans, or jeans, and…okay, if you couldn’t tell, this is just going to be me talking about the clothes I want for fall.

So, foxy little foxies, here is my mandatory wish list for fall. Feel free to buy anything and everything seen below and overnight it to me. Or buy it for yourself and roll around in leaves–or have sex in some! (Just watch out for slugs…I can think of few mood-killers worse than a slug in the wrong place.)

1.) Riding boots. Riding boots are sooo quintessentially fall. I don’t really know why, maybe because they’re preppy–all great fall clothes are, because of memories of going back-to-school or something? Who knows, who cares, buy me some. Snap snap, my delicate feet are catching a chill!

2.) Plaid. Especially in red. So cozy and cute and cuddly, and it crosses over into winter so easily. I have a super-cozy red plaid flannel button-down and you just look so effortlessly cute (or I do, anyway).

Best part? The gents look sexy too

3.) Wool skirts. Are you catching the drift here? Schoolgirl chic, with a kick! (Ha.)

Are you still just sitting dumbly at your computer screen waiting for more things to list? Well, so am I…but I refuse to post them until I get some creamy mocha leather riding boots in my size. Giddy-up!

Hey, Beautiful

MY BEAUTIES I HAVE MISSED YOU!!! I’m so sorry I’ve been neglecting you…BUT, you guys have been neglecting me too, what with your lack of comments and all. Don’t you know I love every little thing you type into the comment box? Besides, you should appreciate the hard work and effort it takes to type these posts, because my left-hand shift key is broken and I have to use the right-hand side which just feels wrong.

There is absolutely nothing to say, because everyone knows the zombie apocalypse is coming and we’re all going to be eaten face-first by naked zombie men. So I thought I would make a list of all the things I love before the world ends. But then, because I am a glorious and loving person, I thought that would take too long, so I shortened it to…

A Few Things I Happen to Love

  1. Cardigans. So sexy, so under-appreciated. I used to think they were so bizarre when I was younger because my friend wore them all the time and I kind of hated them, and now I own a million. If you have the mindset of a 12-year-old WildHearts, get one with a v-neck and wear it buttoned with nothing underneath like I did last night, mmm, scrumptious!
  2. Ice cream. While the world is ending let’s all ransack Ben and Jerry’s (or Hagen-Daz, which is better).
  3. Lip pencil. You draw your lips on with a crayon and it lasts all day like lipstick; I have a lovely all-natural variety that cost me $17 dollars and was worth all 1,700 pennies.
  4. All-natural things. Speaking of my lip crayon! I love them. I try to use mostly natural everything not because I’m a dirty hippie but because the idea of shoving chemicals into my pores is gross when I could shove earthy normal things in them instead. I have lotion made of Royal Jelly that makes me feel like a glowing Queen Bee. Try it, you’ll like it. (And the first time I used it, I came out of the bathroom powder room and the Man said, “Wow, you’re glowing!” so it’s boytoy-approved.)
  5. Kissing. Doesn’t it throw you back to middle school to just kissandkissandkiss until you’re breathless and have beard rash and no more Chapstick?

Five is one of my luckier numbers so I might as well stop there. I miss you, lovelies! My long absence is best explained by the work-sleep work-sleep routine that is my life, and also because I have been focusing on ideas for my new blog. (Ideas, and no actual posts, of course. I don’t even know where I want to host my blog because WordPress–bless its little heart–doesn’t let me edit the layout enough for me.) What have YOU chickies been up to, besides missing me and wondering if I am combing my locks 100 times before bed?

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?

A Work of Living

Jobs are a bleak dreary horrible thing. If you are some kind of freak who likes their job, then you can just go sit in the corner with some construction paper and scissors and cut yourself some confetti. Otherwise, you are probably a normal person who wants to die for 8 hours a day.

Cats make the wanting-to-die thing a little better.

Do you know that movie The Island, where everyone lives on a secret hippie commune island and they all pitch in for food and shelter and get to live in a beautiful paradise together? That is what life should be. Instead, people work all day to survive, but they are wasting their lives at work. It’s a paradox, or a circle, or something smart-sounding: you work to make money –> you make money to enjoy life –> you can’t enjoy life because you’re working.

But what if you could have any job ever? What would you be? I never really gave this any thought because the obvious answer is “independently wealthy.” I am not at all ashamed to admit that I would gladly sit around and shop and drink tea and travel to exotic places and do nothing of value to society if I had the G’s. But if I had to have a dream job not titled “rich bitch,” I’ve figured out what I would be.

  1. A stylist. You get to shop for a living. And hang out with celebrities. And if you hated them and they were obnoxious and self-absorbed, you could put them in something hideous and call it “cutting edge.”
  2. A magazine editor. You get to put together a book full of shopping ideas. Plus, you get to make Anne Hathaway do your bidding, and I don’t care for her so I would make her do stupid things like fetch me lattes whilst on a unicycle.
  3. A museum curator. You get to shop for art for a living. And, you can help up-and-coming artists become the next Andy Warhol but less creepy and rude.
  4. An artist. I can’t think of a quip for this one because I would absolutely love making art for a living.
  5. A blogger, which if you get paid for it, is just like being independently wealthy while taking lots of pictures. (Hey there WordPress, wanna pay me?)

Rich and famous people always say you should “be what you love” and all that shit, and I am for chasing your dreams like a My Pretty Pony prancing through a field of daises, but in my opinion that only applies if you love garbage removal or difficult math. “I love to shop” doesn’t exactly translate into a stellar job.

So, the best I can hope for is the zombie apocalypse (totally not influenced by The Walking Dead playing in the background right now) so that I can steal all the clothes I want from abandoned malls and then go live in some former stylist’s mansion.

Let’s Hate Ourselves

If you live in America, you probably hate yourself. Don’t feel bad, it’s just a thing, like knowing the Pledge of Allegiance or owning Levi’s. (I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic, for which it stands, one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all! Is that right? I typed it out of memory, okay?)

Anyway, people react to this whole society-makes-us-hate-ourselves thing in two ways: they either pretend they love everything about themselves and that their every flaw is a precious adorable diamond, or they keep a secret mental list of everything they would change about themselves if they could. An easy way to find out which type of person your friend is is to ask one simple question: “If you could get plastic surgery, what would you get done?” Absolutely everyone is going to swear they would never get it and they don’t want it, but the fine folks in sector two will then say, “But if I had to…” and then launch into their I-Suck List.

I am fully aware that this is kind of depressing and sad and blah blah blah, but it’s also totally fun if you still generally like yourself but have some things you would like to change. It’s like a game, except you can never win! Me, for instance: I would have thicker hair and perfect skin with a perennial tan and a ten-digit bank account. You just have to be careful not to play too much, or you might find yourself sobbing on the floor and slowly cutting off sections of your eyelashes.

This uplifting message has been brought to you by the WildHearts! And, big disclaimer, whatever you hate about yourself, someone else probably stalks you taking photographs of and wants to lick (your big feet, for instance). So just roll with it like our hippie-dippy friends in Sector One!

The Ugliest Men in the World

Everyone has a type, whether they know it or not. Even if you dated a fatty and a tall dude and then a really skinny midget, they probably had something strongly in common; you just didn’t realize it because you were too busy having sex with them. But hopefully, you silly sluts, none of those guys were the Worst Type in the World. You know the kind of guy I’m talking about. The species douchious maximus, or The Douche.

The Douche is usually really buff, really tan, and wears really tight clothes, but don’t be fooled. The soul of a Douche doesn’t always wear such an obvious suit. Nope, the Douche also comes in quasi-hipster-with-a-soul-patch form, the floppy-haired guy-next-door form, and the well-dressed smooth dude form. But since I’m superficial here at WildHearts, we’re going to focus on the members of the Douche clan who make themselves easily identifiable: see the first description.

Have you ever watched the Jersey Shore? No? Bless your little heart, you’re probably better than me because you don’t own a TV or day-drink. But for those of you who have witnessed that MTV majesty, think back to all the mounds of glistening orange muscles. That, my friends, is a Douche.

I can't bring myself to post a picture of the Douche prototype. These guys could totally be Douches, though, so there you go!

 Theoretically, I’m sure, some of these nasty meatsacks are nice guys, but in my opinon, a guy…

  • with vanity muscles
  • who spray-tans
  • and owns more hair products than me
  • (just kidding, that’s not possible)
  • and buys expensive, ugly clothes
  • so that lots of people will pay attention to him

…is a Douche. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look good and blah blah blah but I think we can all agree that Ed Hardy is not good. Or stupidly pastel-colored Lacoste polos. Or those Abercrombie sweatpants that look so soft and so stupid.

So, in short, the Douche is the worst type, and I would easily classify them as the Ugliest Men Ever, and I hope it’s not your type. But if it is, at least someone is giving them love–they clearly really, really want it.

You, and Other Things I Love

First of all, let me just say how much I fucking love you sexy little people for reading my blog! I just had my highest page views ever, and my little stats bar looks like a mountain over the past few months. It’s wayyyy more fun writing down all my stupid thoughts when people read them and then comment, “I think the same stupid thing!” so I hereby send you all kisses from someone attractive.

Secondly, I am going to make a list of things I love (besides y’all). Why? Because it is fun, that’s why. If you’re ever just slouching around your house in sweatpants watching Mad Men re-runs with an ice-cream spoon sticking out of your mouth, feeling bummed because Don Draper doesn’t hook up with girls/guys in sweatpants, you should ALSO make a list of things you love! I’m not sure if this is making any sense–to clarify, making a list of things you love cheers you up and has nothing to do with Don Draper, unless you put him on your list.

So, here are some things that I adore.

  1. Finding keys when I’m out walking. I don’t know why, I just think it’s sort of magical-seeming. Like, what if I found a locked door and tried the key and IT WORKED and inside was a whimsical land full of faeries?!? Oh, that only happens in movies, you say? Fine, then I’m going to use my key on your car’s paint job.
  2. That fresh-out-of-the-shower feeling. Mmmmph.
  3. Being completely alone somewhere really beautiful.
  4. That just-had-sex feeling. Mmmmph.
  5. Swedish people. They are extremely gorgeous, their accents are cool, and they have great style. I base this solely on Swedish fashion blogs and have never been there so it must be true. But I have to believe it, because I get mistaken for a Swede all the time and clearly it’s because I’m so gorgeous/have an awesome accent/am stylish.
  6. Body lotion. I like it better than perfume, as much as I love perfume, because I feel it really lasts longer.
  7. Forgetting about cups of tea and then drinking them hours later when they’re cold.
  8. Young Johnny Depp. I mean, I wouldn’t kick Current Johnny Depp out of bed, but Young J is so attractive that it literally confounds me. He is a perfect flawless human specimen and if I had a time machine you bet your ass I’m using to it go visit Crybaby-era Johnny. (I’m making him keep the Crybaby hairstyle, too.)
  9. Pretty pictures. There’s a reason Tumblr is so popular, and the reason is not all the annoying “reblog this picture of a war veteran dog with AIDS who is also an orphan and has terminal butt cancer” (REBLOGGING A DEPRESSING PICTURE DOESN’T CURE AIDS, PEOPLE). The reason is pretty pictures. Done.
  10. Kissing. Mmmmph.
  11. The way my nails look right after I just painted them (and before i inevitably smash my hand into something and ruin it all).
  12. Mojitos with lots of mint leaves.
  13. Fresh flowers in funny-looking vases everywhere. If I was rich I’d hire a Chief Executive Flower-Picker to always keep brand-new wildflowers on deck in adorable little bottles.
  14. Getting letters.
  15. YOU GUYS. (You’re so nice, I had to write you in twice!)

And that’s it. That’s everything I love in the whole world, so everything else just GET LOST! (I’m joking, Universe; please don’t smite me and leave me alone with nothing but a mojito and Young Johnny Depp. Or, you know, smite away.)

Okay, now it’s your turn. Next time you feel like poo just make a really long list of stupid things you like, and if you still feel like poo when you’re done with the list, just write more things until you fall asleep and then you won’t remember how sad you are! That’s emotional health if I ever saw it.

Honey, Shut Up

Life has some awkward conversations. Like the, “Oh, when’s the baby due?” chat with the fat girl. Or the let’s-talk-about-my-suicide-attempt talk (what are you supposed to say to that? “Better luck next time?”).

But tops on that list has to be men reading you poetry. Maybe that doesn’t count as a conversation, because they’re just blathering on for a zillion years and you’re just sitting there with glazey eyes, but it’s my blog and I do what I want so nah nah nah.

I mean, seriously. In the movies they make it all romantic and the guy is staring at his beloved and holding her hand, and there’s sweeping music in the background, and OH MY GOD IT’S THE SWEETEST THING EVER MOM WHEN WILL BOYS READ ME POETRY? No, but for real, every effing preteen girl I’ve ever met swans around longing for a boyfriend to sing to her or send her eighty-seven pages of love letters in flowy cursive.

But as anyone who’s ever had a guy read them poetry knows, it is awkward as fuck.

What are you supposed to DO while they’re moaning on about your “ocean eyes” and “legs that trail on like a sentence”? I mean, I like a compliment as much as the next girl, but you could just be like, “You have great eyes,” or, “The way your legs look in that dress makes me want to have sexual intercourse with you.” You know, the normal stuff. And then a normal, confident adult can respond, “Gee, thanks.” But you can’t do that when someone’s reading you poetry, because it seems pretty dick and flippant (dickkant?). For example, if the dude says, “So till the judgment that your self arise, you live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes,” and you’re all, “Sweet, thanks,” you’re being dickkant.

"I don't know why she didn't like my poem; I modeled it on Conor Oberst's songwriting style."

So what do you do?!? You can’t smile a lot, because then it’s like you’re laughing at them, which you probably are since they’re reading you shitty poetry. And you can’t frown, because then you seem like you hate the shitty poetry, which you do. And you can’t say anything, because they’re too busy yammering away. So your only real options are a.) Tell them to shut up because you don’t really like poetry and people reading poems about your face is super awk, b.) Run away, or c.) Stand there like a goon with a half-smile half-frown.

Guess what? All of those options suck. So, I propose option d.) Invent a time machine, hop in that sucker, and go back to Billy Shakespeare’s house and sock him in the face.

Wrong again, Billy!

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