When I was little, I had this really weird habit of wanting to be just one “type” of person. A perfectly encapsulated stereotype of a human, 100% of the time found in some movie I liked. And it usually never made sense. Some of the people I remember wanting to be are: a gladiator (guess what film that one was from?), a grease monkey, a glamorous lady, and Alison from Judy Blume’s Just as Long as We’re Together because she was always nice and everyone loved her.

And then I grew up, and nothing changed. Okay, a little changed–I stopped caring about making my personality like people from books and movies (because I’m AWESOME) and mostly wanted to look/dress/have hair like people from books and movies. So I’d go all bananas on one style for a few weeks, then move on to the next one. Bada-bing. But some notable characters stuck out, and so these are the people whose style I steal in some kind of twisted self-scrapbooking way:

Brigitte Bardot

Brigitte is my girl forever. She’s gorgeous, crazy, timeless, and her clothes are un-fucking-real. I love her giant hair and raccoon eyes, but it’s her outfits that go into my WildHearts scrapbook of life.

Candice Swanepoel

Scrapbook element: makeup. After all, if you’re going to have face-paint inspiration, who better than a Victoria’s Secret model?


They’re the reason I love black tights. Ballet clothes are so pretty and simple and effortless and, sure, look way better on anorexic dancers than the average person, but who said I was average?


I forgot to add “gypsy” to the list of things I really wanted to be when I was little.

I’m bored now. You’re probably bored too! Or, if you’re an American, you’re probably too busy watching your dad blow off his fingers with a firework to read this post.



The Wild Hearts State of the Union

I haven’t posted in a week. I know, I suck. I’ve been busy doing <insert-stuff-people-do-when-they’re-busy-here> and also having extremely bizarre dreams about living in this awkward apartment on top of a really steep hill with nubbly grass that I was supposed to mow. (No one should have to do chores in their dreams. Ever. That’s like going on vacation somewhere awesome but working as the hotel maid.)

Anyway, I have nothing interesting to write, but what’s new there? Instead I am just going to write some things that are knocking around in my head on this fine fall morning (it still counts as morning if I’m still in bed, right?).

–I hate automatic things, specifically automatic toilets, sinks, and towel dispensers. The toilets either never flush, and then you have to press that tiny button which is always recessed into the wall and probably even germier than a handle, or they flush 98,735 times while you’re pulling your pants up. And talk about ruing the mood for bathroom sex.

–The game Catherine is really fun, if the demo is any indication. I abhor cheating in anything, (spoiler: the game is about this toolish commitment-phobic dude who has weird nightmares and cheats on his girlfriend, and the whole game is about if he chooses Katherine, his girlfriend, or Catherine, rando-slut) so I think the main character is a big ol’ crum-bum, but it just makes it that much more satisfying to see him get stabbed with a giant fork when I fuck up a Nightmare stage.

–Miranda Kerr is really pretty. She might be usurping Candice Swanepoel as my favorite Victoria’s Secret model, which will just devastate poor Candice, I know.

–Fall is a glorious glorious season and it should have its own holiday. Besides Halloween, which is great and amazing but is often snow-covered back home. Like an official Fall Day at the end of September, where everybody gets the day off and rolls around in leaves and drinks apple cider and wears giant sweaters. And also there should be shirtless boys wearing scarves like in an Abercrombie ad, and Golden Retriever puppies that never get bigger, and I have a billion dollars and a Porsche. Ahem. Anyway, Fall Day, whooo!

–Good posture is good. I think some people don’t realize how crap and awkward they make themselves look by hunching over like giant shirt-wearing vultures. Do you want to have sex with a vulture? If so, you go on out there and put the “best” in “bestiality.” If not, you are a normal person who should stand the fuck up straight.

I think I might consider getting out of bed now and doing something vaguely human and productive so I will have thrilling stories to share with you Internet People. Or, you know, stay in my warm cozy covers and just make up something really good.

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.

Style Schizophrenic

I like flip books. I also like clicking through my Facebook pictures and watching myself change; it’s like a flip book, except weird and creepy.

Seriously, though, it’s interesting to watch your own looks and style and all those shenanigans morph over time. (Okay, it’s not, I just wanted an excuse to say, “Shenanigans.”) My face is pretty much the same, but my hair went from a long stick-straight middle part, to a stick-straight side part, to straight with side bangs, to shoulder-length, to messy-wavy with side bangs, to now (medium-length wavy). (ALSO, WASN’T THAT FUN TO READ? OBVIOUSLY THE INTERNET LOVES TO HEAR ABOUT MY HAIR. OBVIOUSLY.) As for my clothes, phew. It’s like a style clusterfuck.

So that got me to thinking. If someone from Teen Vogue ran up to me and asked me to describe my style, what the fuck would I say? “Eclectic,” probably, because that’s the clothes equivalent of a crazy old rich man who everyone calls “eccentric.” I.e., “I have no idea, I just buy things.” I think I finally have started to put together something that could be described as “a look” instead of “a closet full of random shit,” but it’s like three different people live inside me when I go shopping.

Sometimes, I am preppy Hollister girl. Which explains why I own six pairs of Hollister jeans, a Hollister miniskirt, Hollister shorts, and way too many shirts and tank-tops and hoodies to count. And some Abercrombie, which is exactly the same except more expensive and less colorful. And yes, Hollister is lame and blah-blah-blah and the only people that buy clothes there are blah-blah-blah yawnnnnnnnnnn. (Who gives a fuck? It’s a store, like any other store. Do I judge you for buying hideous man-like capris at Banana Republic? Actually, wait, I am calling you mean names inside my brain when I see you in those pants, so feel free to retaliate; it’s only fair.)

Other times, I dress like a Playmate. As in, cute slutty pink things. It is the bomb dot com, since I feel like a sexy little tart but it is retarded comfortable. Knee socks, short skirts, little Hello Kitty t-shirts. I know this “style,” if you can even call it that, is about as adult as, um, a very young thing. But never underestimate the comfort level of short-shorts and thigh-highs. And the Guy likes it, so it’s a win-win.

Also, this is a tranny. I just thought I should let you know. It is really hard to find pictures of non-whores in knee socks, and I got bored, so I settled on the tranny.

I guess the last element of the ol’ closet would best be described as “hipster,” although any time someone calls me that I kind of reflexively gag. I dunno why, I don’t really care one way or the other about hipsters, but it just makes me feel like I’ll look down and have a triangle tattoo on my wrist and be ironically wearing a bow tie, or something. (INSTANT HIPSTER.) Think skinny jeans, fringed scarves (I fucking love scarves), plaid button-downs, and lots of cardigans.

But I mean, I guess it doesn’t really matter, since I like all of those things, right?

Or not. So now you know. I am a style schizophrenic. I have let you, the Internet, in on my dirty little secret. Don’t tell anybody or I might just choke you with a pair of leggings.


New Yawk

Be excited, Internet–I’m back from my mini-trip to the city, which means more nonsense to read! WHOOOOOO!

Here is what I learned in New York City:

  1. Mini-markets have fish tanks in them. With fish. And foreign food. Including super-cool Japanese drinks with a bubble in them.
  2. You can have sex during that time of the month. And it will still be good. (But it will be 1,000,000 times better when it goes away during your trip and you don’t have to worry about stuff turning into a Dexter-style crime scene.)
  3. Subway > bus. Especially when people play violin in the station.
  4. Their pizza is really good. It’s not a lie.
  5. Tranny-looking bitches in Victoria’s Secret will kill your dreams of getting it on in the dressing room.

Seriously, that is a good city. There’s so much to do. I mean, I appreciate all the hick stuff I have that city kids don’t–I have a backyard with trees and I can bike ride through rolling hills and I can go canoeing or camping at the drop of a hat. But. City people don’t have to drive a half-hour to go to the grocery store or shovel a massively long driveway or go to Target for fun.

Long story short, the concrete is always cleaner on the other side. Oh, and I love NYC.

Have a Miraculous Christmas

Guess what, Internet? It’s two days before Chrimbo! If you don’t celebrate that holiday, well, then, I don’t know how many days it is until yours, but have a good December 25th anyway!

As a present to myself, I want a new bra.

This bra, to be precise, although probably without all the Swarovski crystals because that will set you back a cool $250. The regular version is “only” $50. See, somehow, I have never bought a Victoria’s Secret bra. I own a bunch of clothes from them, and a drawerful of underwear (I am wearing a VS dress and VS cheekies right now, since I know you were wondering), but I am a cheapo and I can’t bring myself to pay that much for a g.d. ta-ta holder.

But. This, my friends, is not just any bra. This is the Victoria’s Secret Miracle Push-Up Bra, which promises to make you go up two sizes. And I’m pretty sure it’s true, because I have seen Miss Candice Swanepoel sans bra (I’m not a perv; blame Google) and she looks decidedly like a B (as Wikipedia says she is). Long story short, that bra works.

Firstly, that picture reminded me I need to paint my nails. But anyway. I am also a B, although I really can’t image myself having that level of cleavage, but then I got to thinking…isn’t that kind of false advertising? Imagine if you were fooling around with a guy and grabbing what you thought was a super-impressive boner, only to find out that it was like a flashlight or something. When I take off my bra, I don’t want the reaction to be disappointment. Au contraire, I would prefer a happy kid-on-Christmas (hey! That’s soon!) face. So if I walk around with a super-stacked looking chest and then take my clothes off, it’ll be like my ta-tas deflated. And that is definitely not miraculous.

So, fuck it. I will probably just keep buying eighty-seven pounds of underwear and wearing Aerie bras, since they keep the girls a normal size and aren’t sneaky little tricksters.

I’m sorry, I just had to put another Victoria’s Secret picture in here, because it looks so Christmassy and adorable. Also, I want her hair.

Happy Holidays, Internet!

I’m Naked…Er, Wearing Great Lingerie Under My Clothes

I love lingerie. Best of all, it goes hand-in-hand with loving clothes and loving sex. And you can never have too much of it, because come on, underwear are essential! (And so are thigh-highs. And stockings. And corsets. Obviously.) Seriously, though, I love me some lingerie. It’s the one thing I am always in the mood to shop for.

See? Look how excited the Victoria’s Secret Angels are! VS is one of my favorite places to shop for lingerie, primarily because they’re adorable (I just bought some red Cheekies) and also because they are crazy well-made. Plus, I just love the store. It’s so pink and colorful and cute. And I totally love the VS aesthetic–bronzed and sparkly and bouncy-haired and sexy, instead of some anorexic waif with seventeen pounds of black eyeliner glaring at the camera. Cheerful, happy people make wearing undies fun. Well, more fun.

Also, I am fully of the opinion that if you feel sexy underneath your clothes, you’ll feel sexier in general. Who cares if the world doesn’t know I’m wearing a gorgeous matching thong-and-bra set? I know, and it makes me feel more like taking my clothes off (not that I don’t usually). Plus, if you get hit by a car, at least your body will look smokin’ hot while it’s chilling on the pavement.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put on a corset in case I step out in front of a cab.