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?


I can’t think of anything to write about. So instead: a picture of balloons and gorgeous lingerie.

Any suggestions, Dearest Readers? I know your smart little brains are just bursting with rainbow-colored imaginations chock-full of perfect blog topics for me to write about. Throw it in the comments. I will even write a story about you, or write a letter to your boyfriend dumping him, or a haiku about pennies! CLEARLY I NEED IDEAS.

Don’t Be Shy!

Dearest readers, sometimes I have 487,032 ideas for this blog and I bang out posts like…um…someone who’s putting up a fence. And sometimes, my mind is a big fat blank and I have absolutely no ideas.

Guess what kind of day today is?! So, I need your smart sexy little brains to give me some topics. Besides, even if I’m bursting with brilliant thoughts, I still love getting comments. Imagine a little fat kid on Valentine’s Day opening their desk and seeing cards from every kid in the class–that’s me when I get comments from y’all in my inbox.

So don’t be shy! Give me something to write about. Or comment, Listen, bitch, this is your blog. Come up with your own damn ideas. (Don’t say that. That’s mean.)

Don’t Hate Me, Sexy Internet People

I know, I know, I suck. I’ve become one of those blogs who never updates until you think, “Fuck this shit,” and take them off your favorites list (WAS I ON YOUR FAVORITES LIST AT ONE POINT?!?!?! THAT’S EXCITING, LET’S TALK ABOUT IT OVER SOME CREPES SUZETTE).

I could explain that I am a busy busy bee, off doing things a busy busy bee does (like…being more black-and-yellow than a Wiz Khalifa song? Or…pollinating?). But who cares? The point is, I suck, and I will try to write more.

But seriously, People of the Internet, make like the old tune and give me something to talk about. I am just one [extremely attractive, awesome] girl. I can only use so much of my brain, and since 99% of it is usually focused on shoes there’s not a lot of time to come up with winningly interesting blog topics. You can even just type random spam words into the comment box and I’ll do my best.


Not an Amish Paradise

I haven’t had internet for the past week, and I suffered severe withdraw symptoms, including but not limited to: shaking, night terrors, typing on my computer while it was shut off, and licking electrical outlets.

My apartment was supposed to get kitted out with the World Wide Web (ha, remember the ’90s?) today, but because I suck at technology it is probably not going to be up and running yet. But I was feening, so I am typing this from a little café on the Rue de Thérain…or, you know, in a free Wi-Fi zone. I just missed you little People of the Internet so much, and I was tickled pink to come back to some comments.

Anyway, I was going to write a handy-dandy little survival guide to living as an Amish person. But then my brain floated back into my head and I realized that anyone reading a blog post about how to subsist-sans-internet is on the internet. So. There goes that.

But in case your internet dies the second after you finish reading this, my recommendations for not shooting yourself with boredom when stuck in a webless house during a rainstorm (am I lucky, or am I lucky?) are as follows:

  1. Play Pac-Man. Lots and lots of Pac-Man. Preferably until your thumbs hurt and you are cursing at the screen, usually about how those stupid little ghost motherfuckers like to trap you in corners like a bunch of assholes.
  2. Watch The Vampire Diaries, Season One, even if you just watched all twenty-two episodes twice in the past week.
  3. Have sex.
  4. Go the mall, a lot, and wander aimlessly around Border’s going-out-of-business sale until you find a giant glossy coffee-table book for $3.23. Buy it, and then take it home to realize that half of it is red-carpet pictures from 1986.
  5. Have some more sex.

There you go, you lucky on-the-internet bastards.

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.


Stop Getting Teardrops on Your Guitars

Why is so much music depressing? “It’s your gradual descent into a life you never meant/It’s the slow fade of love,” are the inspirational words pumping out of my speakers right now (thanks for the sunny message, Rilo Kiley!). I mean, to be fair, it is my music, but Genius picked it, not me.

Seriously, though, 99.99(99999)% of the music I listen to seems to be sad. And I am a happy person. I am also kind of like a sponge, in that I soak up water and people use me to wash their dishes. No, just kidding, I’m a washcloth. (What I really meant is that I basically conform to the mood of whatever is around me, automatically, by accident. Not other people–fuck y’all, I’m still gonna be happy no matter what–but sad movies and music equal sad Wild Hearts.)

Maybe I am just a freak, and this doesn’t happen to anyone else. But if it does, then why can’t more music be happy? And I know what everyone is going to say:

  1. “People are expressing themselves through music, and people are sad.” Guess what, get the fuck over yourself. Your boyfriend dumped you and instead of moving on and sleeping with his hot friend, you wrote a four-page poem about it. That’s even more depressing than your lyrics.
  2. “There is plenty of happy music, and you’re just not listening to it!” Okay, sometimes, I want to listen to the kind of music I like (read: fun, interesting indie-ish music, like Basia Bulat and Minus the Bear, rather than radio tunes, which are also good but not exactly hanging-out jams por moi). And I’m not saying indie artists (what does that even MEAN?) don’t have happy songs, ’cause they totally do. But they are usually sandwiched between 973 depressing songs.

So. Being the proactive person I am, I didn’t just blather all this to complain. Oh, no. (Plus, I figure, some sick freaks–probably the same sorts of people who save their toenail clippings and watch A Walk to Remember with a straight face–actually like sad music, and I don’t want to hate on them. Much.) See, I came up with a solution.

How to Make Indie Music Artists Happy So They Write a Little More Happy Music (Ideally at Least 50% Happy On Each CD, Because Come On)

— Give them all puppies. Literally no one is sad around a puppy. If you just invented a time machine only to realize it can only go back to Holocaust-era Germany and never come back, and your life’s work is wasted on time-traveling-trips to Hitlerville, a puppy will cheer you up.

–Give them sex. FUN sex! Connor Oberst (I probably spelled his name wrong; I usually do, but I’m not going to Google it because I don’t care) is a sad motherfucker and he gets it in with every bright-eyed (ha!) girl who comes around. Clearly, they all suck in bed, or Connor (Conner? Konner? NGJSNG?) might stop writing slush about hot knives (although I do love that song). So maybe give them either a really good time, or pay someone to hop on that with pizazz and lots of smiling.

–Win the lottery and buy out an amusement park for the day; take them there. (If you don’t win the lotto, the lines and screaming children and annoying people saying, “I CAN GUESS YOUR AGE REALLY I CAN I SWEAR I CAN DO IT YOU’RE 15 RIGHT OH NO I WAS WRONG HAVE A GIANT FROG” will just depress them even more. Maybe that’s what happened with Pink Floyd.)

That’s all I’ve got. I didn’t really think it through, because I was pretty sure the puppy thing would work right out the gate. Or you could just listen to all the depressing stuff and pretend that it’s happy instead, like that girl who can’t take a hint and takes, “We need a break,” to mean, “He wants to take a break so he can go engagement-ring shopping in secret!” He never means that, honey. Go write a song about it, maybe?

You Missed Me, Didn’t You?

So, you know when you have a blog you really, really love, and you check it all the time to see if they put up new stuff, and they don’t? And then you’re kind of like, “Well, fuck you too. You could maybe post something before it’s 2012 and the world is over and I’ll be too busy drowning in lava to follow any blogs.”

Yeah, I’m that guy. Except that no one really, really loves my blog, so it’s okay. But I still feel bad when I go on a million-year hiatus and leave my poor, like, eight faithful readers in the cold (I love you all). I’ve just been a smidge busy doing that whole summer thing, and working my new job in hell.

Seriously, though, I promise to write something besides this shitty post promising to write more stuff. Really! Maybe I’ll write a story about a half-zebra half-giraffe mutant baby. Or perhaps I shall interview Michelle Obama with fun questions like, “If Bar was out of the picture, who’d you rather: David Beckham or Johnny Depp?” You never know, maybe I will even put a picture of an adorable cat on here! THE FUN JUST KEEPS ROLLING!

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!