A Few Fuck-Yous…


…Brought to you by international air and train travel.

1. Fuck you for wearing your skunk perfume on a plane (also on the train…I’m looking at you, passengers of renfe who showered in old man cologne). I’m glad you’re making an effort to smell good but we’re all hurtling through the sky in a coke can so everyone can smell everyone else a little too well and I will sneeze on you.

2. Fuck you for wearing your nicest heels and jewels through the security line. I’m glad you’re wealthy and old, but there’s really no reason to hold up the line with your nonsense just so you can stick your fake nose a little higher in the air.

3. Fuck you for looking nice on an airplane, honestly. This isn’t so much of a fuck you as it is a how is this possible? I look like a gremlin who was caught in a flood and a tornado and a hornets nest. It’s just rude to look so much better than me, and to make it all look so effortless. I’m wearing socks with sandals, goddamn it, because I’m tired, these shoes were too heavy to check through, and my toes get cold. I’m a wreck. This is a PSA.

4. Fuck the system. Or…yeah. Fuck this whole first class business class nonsense. I get it, because I, too, would like to actually be able to stretch my (very long) legs out whilst flying. But I can’t, because I don’t have money flying off of trees and landing in my wallet.

5. Speaking of first class, fuck the stupid curtain. “Okay so what we’ll do is take the rich people and put them up front and then keep the plebs away from them with a mesh curtain.”

6. Fuck airports that don’t have free unlimited wifi. Sorry I have a six hour layover and wanted to write on my laptop but only had 30 minutes to do it, JFK. Sorry. So sorry I refuse to pay $5 an hour for shitty wifi. On that note, fuck writing a blog post on your cell phone whilst using data.

7. Fuck. I’m so fucking tired. I’m in that mood where nothing matters so I don’t understand why people put any effort into anything non-essential. Also I broke a nail and I’m annoyingly emotional about it.

8. 12 hours down, 8 to go. There’s no place like home. Fuck everywhere else.

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Can We Discuss Disney Princesses Though


I was on the phone with my dad yesterday crying (surprise) over my lack of romantic luck recently. He gave me some really wonderful advice, the most hilarious of which came when he said, “The worst thing Disney ever did for society was write those stupid happy endings.” Or something to that effect — I tend to describe things a little more sassily than he does.

Anyway, it got me thinking: according to Disney, everything works out in the end if you’re a quiet woman in a patriarchal society. I am not quiet, and I’m actively attempting to smash the patriarchy at every turn, so I’m a little concerned about what this means for my love life. Also, I’m not exactly straight so I just wanna know what Disney would recommend if I’m trying to woo a mermaid, but I doubt I’ll be getting any answers on that front any time soon.

I’ve never wanted to be a princess, but I’m realizing that in a Disney world, I would have to be in order to fall in love, so uh…here we go. Now, there are a few (million) necessary adjustments I must make to my life in order to attain princess perfection:

  1. Become tiny. Which might be difficult since I’m 6′ and not exactly slender. Maybe I can cut my legs off at the knees, which would successfully reduce my weight and height in one fell swoop. It would also allow me to become helpless. Maybe my prince would be down to push me around in a wheelchair for the rest of eternity (which is obviously also how long our love would last).
  2. Replace my sweet mother with some horrible woman who wants to lock me in a tower or make me mop her floors and take care of her fat, evil cat. I could probably start looking for that type of woman at the local Chicos clothing store. The more chunky jewelry, the better, I’d assume.
  3. Become straight. And probably develop a dwarf and/or squirrel fetish.
  4. Don’t leave the house unless I look immaculate (note to self: find fairy godstylist). Only do housework if forced to. Allow mice to take up residence in my apartment.
  5. Immediately unlearn every self defense skill I’ve ever been taught. Walk into forests alone at night. Take food from strangers. Make deals with weird octopi in ocean caves. Make out with frogs even though they probably have weird swamp bacteria all over their bodies. Totally wander into random cabins in the woods without worrying about some racist hillbilly coming in and axe murdering me while I’m fast asleep.
  6. Let teacups teach me about love. Employ candlesticks for both light and therapeutic advice. Become easily impressed by silverware. Become way too obsessed with my hair for anyone’s good (this one might not be too tricky for me).
  7. Stop talking. This might be hard, as I don’t think I’ve spent more than 3 hours in silence at any given time. I even talk in my sleep, for goodness sake.
  8. Assume kissing men will always be magical and totally save my life. Because obviously everyone knows how to kiss me the way I’d like. None of them will shove their tongues down my throat (princes don’t actually possess tongues, anyway) or drool on me (and yes, before you ask, that has happened to me and I really don’t want to talk about it). Let random twerps kiss me just in case it helps my situation in life.

I think that’s it.

And yes, I’m super serious about the squirrel fetish.

If You’re Ever Feeling Ugly


Maybe you look in the mirror and notice that your chin hair (mine’s named Vern, so don’t be ashamed of yours) is growing back with a vengeance. Maybe you have a huge zit right in between your eyebrows, and it’s totally blocking your third eye. It’s possible that your butt grew two sizes overnight (sort of like the Grinch’s heart but in a really inconvenient butt way) and you suddenly can’t even fit into your sweatpants. Or perhaps your lips are so chapped that they’ve ripped apart and you can see the earth’s core in them, the cracks are so deep. Maybe your hair, which is typically voluminous and bouncy like a perpetual shampoo ad, is sticking up in 50 different directions and the when you try to comb it your brush gets stuck and now you have comb hair which isn’t even in style right now…

In any case, here are a few ways to feel less ugly!

1. Pluck your eyebrows. Sometimes they get scraggly and you don’t even notice until suddenly they’re covering your entire face and you have to go at them with a bush whacker.

2. Use a face mask to hide your entire face from the world. They usually feel nice and have weird things like peppermint bobos or teatree monkeys in them. Mine has volcanic ash in it, and that isn’t even a joke; my face is slowly turning into a volcano.

3. Make new pants out of your curtains. Who said only nuns can get creative with draperies?

4. Wear a cat on your head. We’ve all heard the story of The Cat in the Hat, but what about The Cat IS the Hat? That’s a long lost tale from biblical times, I think. Esther had just saved the Jewish people when she suddenly realized she was having a terrible hair day. She knew that she could not be taken seriously if her hair looked bad, so she picked up an alleycat and went about her day. Women are so resourceful!

5. Chuck all of those other tips in the trash. You’re not ugly. Ugly is a stupid social construct, and lately I’ve been on a “damn the man” kick. So say it with me! My chin hair is beautiful!

India


So uh…in case you guys were wondering…

I’M GOING TO INDIA.

This summer. Study abroad. INDIAAAAAAAA. Whatevs.

I found out today while I was studying for an exam (I may have been so heavily caffeinated that upon receiving the email I had an excitement- and caffeine-induced seizure in the library) and was immediately distracted, so I walked home to shake off some of the jitters. After studying a bit more at my apartment, I made the mistake of taking a study break and looking at some of the documents I was given about traveling abroad/housing info/class registration/plane tickets/visa info/don’t get malaria/this is gonna be a huge culture shock and…

Now I’m super overwhelmed. Super super excited, but also super overwhelmed. I have to constantly remind myself (seriously, every three seconds) that I have time to deal with all the paperwork and that I should just allow myself to be happy I got into the program and now it’s time to study for my test.

YOU GUYS. I’M GOING TO INDIA. I. AM. SO. HAPPY.

This must be what doing cocaine feels like. Except…not? I don’t know, my test tomorrow is for my drugs and alcohol class, so maybe if I was studying I’d know what the effects of cocaine are. Oops.

I’ve gone insane. The caffeine hasn’t worn off yet. To prevent myself from further embarassment, I’ll just stop here, but I’ll leave you with this lovely gem:

There’s an SNL episode in which Zac Effron explains the differences between attending a musical high school and actual college. He talks about a song he made up called “nervous but excited” and that song needs to be written (probably by me) because it’s exactly how I feel about India. Nervous, but excited.

So yeah, click here for the clip of that…

Love you all! Wheeeee!

Little Squeaks


Last night, I was really worried there was a mouse in my apartment. A real one, with little ears and whiskers and possibly rabies, and it made me very nervous. Now, remember, I pride myself on not being creeped out by bugs or snakes or small rodents (except squirrels, because they’re always up to no good). But when there’s a possibility that one is hiding under your bed hoping for a nighttime snack, it’s a whole new situation.

I heard a few squeaking noises, which I initially thought were coming from my toilet (and let’s be honest, that’s entirely possible…my plumbing isn’t exactly up to par) and then I heard something fall down (another moment of honesty: things fall down a lot in my apartment because I apparently don’t know how to hang stuff properly). I never figured out what fell, exactly, and I was incredibly sleep deprived from an insane two weeks of manic test-taking, so it’s very possible that I’d been hallucinating or something. 

I was still pretty paranoid, and I have to admit I did sit on my bed in terror for a few minutes (hours), and I looked under my bed half-expecting to have one of my eyeballs gnawed off. After walking around my apartment (crouching, really) kicking everything to make sure my mousey friend wasn’t hiding in or under it, I came to the conclusion that there’s a 99.9% chance that I’m losing my marbles and there is not a mouse in my house (har har). 

So I guess if Little Squeaks (that’s his name, obviously, especially because I’m hoping he’s really small) does live here now, he and I will just have to coexist for the rest of the semester. I do have plenty of cheese.

Props to Edward the Groceryman


I got groceries today. This is not a particularly novel activity, as I have seen groceries before. Heck, I’ve even purchased them for my mother. But today, I took a bus to get them. This is also not very exciting. I’ve looked at busses, stood in the rain and been splashed by busses, and even ridden a few in my time. So today, I hopped on that bus, ID card in hand, and smiled at the incredibly grumpy bus driver before sitting down and getting bus-sick. Note to self: don’t sit in the sideways seats anymore. You knew this. This has happened before, Cappy. Don’t be stupid. Also, I got off at a stop by McDonald’s and the automated bus voice (I’m pretty sure her name is Nadine) pronounced it MAC-Donald’s, so I’ve concluded that busses are super sassy and I love them.

Anyway, today I rode that bus to dreamville (the weird, sort of creepy local grocery store with huge confetti-like shapes on the building…the 80s called, but they definitely don’t want your decor back) and it was magical. It’s not actually called dreamville, by the way.

Aisle after cramped aisle of overpriced pre-sliced lunch meat. So many products on sale (previously incredibly expensive but now semi-reasonably priced) for purchase by poor college students who prefer to shop local instead of going to Walmart. So many croutons. So many donuts, which I narrowly avoided by focusing on carrots instead. Such expensive bell peppers (seriously, why are they always so expensive?). Milk…milk for 4 dollars. Little tiny 4 dollar milk. I bought holiday-themed tupperware because it was on sale and I have nothing to put leftovers in. I didn’t know anyone wanted holiday themed tupperware.

I had coupons, yo, and I saved 5 cents for bringing my own reusable bags, holla! Bought most of the stuff on sale, except for prunes. Those are expensive forever. But they’re really good on baked chicken (who would’ve thought? Me, that’s who).

Anyway, props to Edward the Groceryman for fitting all my groceries into 2 bags! I’d bumped into him earlier in the freezer section (It’s dangerous for you to be here in the frozen food section…cuz you could melt all this stuff) and he joked that we could dance. It was a wide aisle, and I almost took him up on it, but he was a little elderly and might’ve strained his back. I’m a pretty wild dancer. Dance with me at your own risk, y’all. So then we reconnected in the checkout line, where I checked him out (no, I didn’t) and he was very helpful and very nice. Thumbs up, Edward.

Step two of adulthood complete! (I don’t know what step one was. Maybe not burning all my food?)

Start this at 0:42

Merry Christmas, Plebeians


We were going for “romantic” but Mickey’s rockstar heart just can’t be tamed.

Dear Friends,

Well, 2013 sure did fly by — like me, on my private jet, flying off to Morocco. I have, once again, had an amazing year that was probably much more exciting than yours.

As you probably read in the tabloids, my new lover Mickey and I were swept up in a whirlwind romance that culminated in him proposing atop the Eiffel Tower a few months ago. As we prepare for our lavish wedding in the Bahamas, we wanted to make sure we kept you up to date with our lives, since you will definitely not be getting an invite to the wedding. It’s very exclusive, and you’re just…not exclusive material.

When my latest book, Welcome to Paradise: A Memoir of Fame, Glory and Striking Beauty hit the shelves earlier this year, I was hailed by critics as “clearly having a better life than anyone else on the planet” and “a perfect example of why other people should just sit down and stop trying, since Cappy is so much better than anyone else ever could be.” Obviously, the book wasn’t as popular as I’d hoped (is a Pulitzer really too much to ask for?), but those reviews were rather sweet.

I travelled the world on yet another exhausting book tour over the summer. Asia was particularly difficult because, wherever I went, fans wanted photos with me. It must’ve been my gorgeous face, long legs and blonde hair that really made them love me. Well, that and the fact that I inspire awe wherever I go.

I dyed my gorgeous locks pink for charity earlier this month, and have been offered several modeling gigs since. I guess I just have “the look” now (who am I kidding — I’ve always had the look). I’ve turned them all down, of course, because with my hectic schedule and amazing love life I just don’t have the time. Besides, I wouldn’t want to make the other models jealous of my natural, raw talent.

Mickey has been trying to relax lately. After his recent tour of North America with his rock band, The Cat’s Meow, he came home to our New York apartment and slept for a week. When he woke up, we started a strict sushi diet — all that fish oil is really very good for the hair, you know — and have been lounging around and opening our Christmas presents from our adoring fans.

We love you. Without you, we’d have no one to brag to about our important lives. We expect amazing things in 2014 and hope you stay healthy for another year so you’re around to hear us brag about our accomplishments in the next Christmas letter.

xo

We love you!

We love you!

I Have a Few Issues With Bathrooms


Bathrooms should be sanctuaries. Sanctuaries where we poo. But lately I’ve been noticing a lot of issues with these supposed “tranquil” areas.

1. Why does the bathroom stall door open inward? Because when I’m on campus, wearing a backpack and a huge coat (it hath snowed, everyone), I already barely fit in the stall while the door’s closed. But then, upon attempting to leave the stall, I’m faced with a conundrum: how? How do I leave? I try to pull the door open and accidentally hit myself in the face! Now not only am I stuck in a poo “sanctuary” but I’m bleeding profusely from my schnoz and am possibly concussed. And then there’s always the possibility of an accidental falling-in-the-toilet situation. Which would just be unfortunate.
Someone needs to remedy this. I’m lookin’ at you, engineers.

2. What’s with those nonsense faucets that only spew water for about 2 seconds? You know, the ones where you lather up and then push a button with the back of your soapy hand, only to have a momentary spritz of water before the water stops. Those faucets are teases. “Oh, you want water? Sure, have some water. Nice, warm water to help you sanitize your icky hands…oh just kidding. I’ve run out. PUSH ME AGAIN.” Again. Engineers, you’re half-assin’ it.

3. Nothing you touch is sanitary. Ever. How can I exit the poo sanctuary in peace when the whole time I’m dodging bacteria like a germaphobic kangaroo? Those minxy faucets clearly are disease ridden, judging by the amount of times everyone has to punch them to get more than a tablespoon out. And the doors always have handles and open inward (both on the stalls and upon exiting the bathroom). I don’t want to touch a door handle after I’ve just washed my hands, because lord knows I’m in the minority when it comes to sanitizing my mitts after pottying. I’ve seen so many people leave that sanctuary uncleansed. Ew.

Basically, someone needs to do something about this, but it can’t be me. I’m too emotionally involved, and that would just lead to nonsense, like adding zen gardens into every toilet and having a toilet attendant who compliments you on your hair before you leave. Somebody. Do. Something.

Sad Banana


Imagine: A rain stick swishes softly in the background. A girl performs an interpretive dance involving a lot of stretching, then balling up on the ground, then stretching, then rolling around. Then stretching, while I recite the poem…

Oh, banana. Why are you so sad?
Yellow butter skin
bruised by the softest touch
bruised by time
Oh, banana. All I want is to
dip you in nutella
to please my taste buds.
Oh, banana.
Sassy bastard.
The love I feel for you is equal to the hate you feel for fruit flies.
Biz-buz, little fruit fly. Fly away from
sad banana, and let him die in peace.
Sad, sad banana.

Bow.

I Would Ship You All


I might secretly want to write fan fiction. Like, really badly, if only to make it so absurdly ridiculous that I’ll get some sort of cult following of 14 year old girls who love me and make me rich and famous. Kind of like that doof who wrote 50 Shades of Grey, only…a million times better at writing and not British. And I don’t have children who will be mortified to find out that I’m the one writing kinky Twilight fan fiction. Someone should call child protective services on EL James. ASAP.

Anyway, I wanna write fan fiction about everything. And I will ship everyone. For those of you who don’t know, shipping is when you take two characters you’d like to see together and write a fan fiction piece about it. So let’s get started.

Crime and Punishment, where Raskolnikov actually falls in love with Alyona Ivanovna and decides not to kill her with an axe. Instead, he shacks up with her and Lizaveta and becomes landlord to his former neighbors, becoming rich and grumpy in the process. But, no matter how surly he is, he always has his beloved Alyona, and they live happily ever after amongst their gold coins and furrowed brows. It’s amazing what Cupid’s arrow can do.

The Great Gatsby. After that fateful night when Daisy ran over Myrtle, Gatsby decides to go on a little vacation with Nick. Just to get away, to clear his head. Soon, the two friends become more, so much more, and run away together into the sunset. Daisy doesn’t matter. East Egg and West Egg don’t matter. Nothing matters but Gatsby’s eyes, Nick’s smile, their love.

The Office. Meredith and Creed have sat so close all these years, yet their hearts have been so far apart. Finally, after Meredith has to shave her head due to that unfortunate lice incident, Creed realizes that they’re similar in so many ways (hairstyles now being one of them). He walks to Meredith’s desk, places a joint on her desk, and waits. She smiles knowingly. This is love. This was meant to be. How had she never seen it before? She invites him to her minivan and they talk for hours, completely forgetting the joint they’d planned to smoke. Talking is all they need. Unfortunately, someone sees the joint, calls the police, and they’re both arrested for possession of illegal substances. Due to prior offenses, both are sent to prison and separated forever. It’s tragic, but rather fitting.

The News Hour with Jim Lehrer on PBS. Gwen Ifill and Ray Suarez, having worked together for so long, finally realize they’ll never find anyone else who works the crazy hours that they do. Longing glances across the anchor desk turn to whispers in dressing rooms and soon, Gwen is receiving flowers daily. Coworkers are confused at first, but finally realize yes, this was always meant to be. Gwen and Ray are America’s Will and Kate, and they reign over the nightly news with dignity and class never before seen, especially not on FOX news.

So there you have it. I’m amazing. Feel free to send me fan mail.