Don’t Debbie Down

I just watched The Truth About Cats and Dogs yesterday, by which I mean I fell asleep forty minutes into The Truth About Cats and Dogs. Before you immediately X out of your internet in fear of reading a whole post about an Uma Thurman movie, don’t worry. It just made me think of a stellar (read: stupid) blog topic for the day: Unconfident Debbie-Downer Type People!

Now, everybody knows someone like this. Maybe you are someone like this, but since you’re amazing enough to be reading my blog, I doubt it. You know the type: they complain constantly about themselves/how life hates them/how they have such bad luck/how nothing good ever comes their way. Usually, they attribute these complains to some personal trait. This probably generalizes to a whole bunch of Debbie Downers in a variety of situations, but I have most often encountered the Unconfident I-Am-So-Ugly-That-Life-Will-Never-Be-Good girl.

Take Janeane Garofalo from the Cats and Dogs movie. For the entire forty minutes my brain managed to focus on the TV without spontaneously combusting [note: if you typo this “cumbusting,” which I did, it’s a lot funnier], Jenny does nothing but bitch and complain about how she knows she is sooooo plain and hideous that the mere sight of her face turns men into eunuchs. In one scene, she drops salsa on her top BECAUSE SHE IS BEING A FUCKING SLOB AND WAVING AROUND A SALSA-COVERED CHIP and just says something to the effect of, “Oh, that would happen to me,” with such self-pity and desperation I think even the TV cringed.

I have, tragically, encountered this type of person more than once. Usually, they live on Tumblr, and churn out things like this. If you’re too lazy to click the link (no shame in that, man), it says, “If all girls started wearing no makeup and comfortable clothes, guys would have no choice but to fall for girls because of natural beauty.” I’ll give you a moment to swallow your vomit.

Now, that might seem a tad unrelated to the whole Uma Thurman movie, but the Unconfident People weave a tangled web, my friends. For the specific sub-set of Debbie Downers I’m talking about, their internal thought process apparently goes something like this:

“I do not think I am attractive.” –> “Good things happen to attractive people, but not to me, because [see previous].” –> “My life would be so much better if I was more attractive, but [see first statement].” –> “Therefore, I will hate everyone who I perceive to be attractive because [see second statement].”

As you can see, this complicated flow chart reflects the inner mind of an Unconfident Debbie Downer. Hate yourself, blame everything on earth on the thing you hate about yourself, and then hate everyone who has the trait you feel you’re lacking in. If I’m coming off a little harsh, it’s only because I want these people to SNAP OUT OF IT. Everyone has a good quality, and I am a firm believer that anyone can look attractive with proper care. For some reason, girls who long to be pretty but think they are ugly would rather bitch and complain about “slutty” girls with their whorish, eeeeevil makeup than slap some on themselves. News flash, Debbie Downers: that so-called tramp you’re hating on out of obvious jealousy probably looks exactly like you before she goes to the time and effort of making herself look better.

Don’t mistake me–girls do not need makeup. If you genuinely don’t like makeup, don’t wear it. But also, don’t bitch that you’re ugly, because God floated down from his cloud and make Revlon for a reason. And don’t call other girls sluts because they chose to do something you don’t. Oh, and as for that idiotic little Tumblr quote–any guy who wouldn’t date you because you don’t wear makeup is a massive douche, and not worth your time anyway.

My rant is nearing its close, so if you’ve hung in here this long, don’t think I’m a crazy. Everyone feels bad about themselves from time to time; it’s all a natural part of life and blah blah something holistic blah. All I am saying is that there is absolutley no reason to hate any part of your sexy self so think about that the next time you’re about to call someone you think (think! That doesn’t mean it’s true!) is prettier than you a fat, pig-faced whorebag.

This rant brought to you by the Coalition For People Who Are Sick of Hearing People Hate On Other People For Stupid Reasons Because We’re All Just Beautiful Flowers Anyway, Man.

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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!])

A Guide to Coming Out About Being a Sex Worker

Apparently, in Japan, they have all these crazy sex clubs where models swim around in fish tanks or serve drinks or get groped on a fake train. This just further serves to prove that Japanese people are really, extremely weird. It also proves that I should move to Japan and get a job.

See, I guess they have a thing for foreigners, when they’re not busy stuffing their own ladies into creepily underaged schoolgirl costumes and marrying anime characters. And being tall and blonde in Japan seems pretty damn foreign to me. I can swim in a fish tank, so I think I might have to buy some tickets.

Seriously, I’m going to stop stereotyping an entire country now (but seriously, they seem pretty weird) and get to the point. Oh, wait, I don’t have one. But my own mindless rambling did make me think, how would I tell my parents that I’m moving to Japan to be a sex worker?

Like, how do strippers break that news to the ‘rents? “How’d you pay for that new purse, honey?” “SLIDING UP AND DOWN A POLE IN A G-STRING AND SAVING ALL THE DOLLAR BILLS. Oh, fuck, that just slipped out. And also I’m a stripper.” Or prostitutes? Do you build up to it, or do you just toss it into conversation? Well, if you’re a stripper/hooker/something else awkwardly sexual for a job, it’s your lucky day! (Unless you got herpes at work. In which case, today is really not going well for you.) Because I have taken it upon myself to do y’all a favor and write:

The Wild Hearts Guide For Breaking the News About Your Awkwardly Sexual Job to Your Parents or Other Old Important People (You Know, Like Uncle Jake, Who You’ve Always Looked Up to, or Grandma): Five Different Ways to Tell Them You’re a Whore Awkwardly Sexual Worker

  1. Say it in frosting. Nothing takes the sting out of, “I wasted thousands of dollars on a college education only to become a Chippendale’s dancer” like a cake. Some suggestions for the icing? “I Am a Man-Whore. But Look, Cake!” Or maybe, “I Swallow ‘Frosting’ For a Living, So This Seemed Like a Fitting Way to Tell You.” (Pro tip: you might have trouble fitting that all on one cake. And also that’s disgusting. I am ashamed of myself. But not ashamed enough to press backspace.)
  2. Throw it into an unrelated conversation. Like this: “So, I told Gladys, no, those aren’t primroses! I mean, can you believe her?” “I can’t. Also, I’m a prostitute.” Never fails.
  3. Invite them to your place of work. Your mom might not agree to go to a strip club or phone sex hot-line headquarters at first, but if you guarantee a really great surprise, she might cave. And what’s more surprising than learning that your so-called “law firm internship” is actually at a place called HOT NUDE LIVE LADIES XXX?
  4. Leave a note on the refrigerator.
  5. Sit them down and tell them that while they may not agree with your lifestyle choices, it’s what you want. Wait, nahh, that’d never work. Buy them a bouquet with a card saying, “I turn tricks–that’s how I was able to afford this sweet bundle o’ flowers! You’re welcome!”

Was that helpful, or was that helpful?