Fingerless Gloves and Other Pointless Things


I’m all for looking awesome, but sometimes I wonder why looking awesome has recently come at the expense of wearing useless things.

The fingerless gloves have got to go. Honestly. Unless you’re homeless or happen to need them in order to properly be a mechanic or something, you should be ashamed of yourself for wearing them. You should be ashamed of yourselves for imitating homeless “fashion.” Homeless people do not wear clothes for fashion. They wear them because they’re clothes. And the fact that you have chosen to emulate their “wardrobe” is an affront to homeless people everywhere.

Stop wearing your headband across your forehead. The purpose of a headband is to keep things OFF of your forehead, not add a bedazzled strip across it. Why would anyone think that looks attractive, you ask? Answer: They’re cutting off the circulation to their brain.

Your lensless/non-prescription glasses make you look like a fool. You’re not playing Harry Potter. You’re not, even though you dreamed you would. Weren’t you the kid who made fun of the “nerds” wearing glasses? Well, you’ve apparently joined their club, but they don’t want you. I speak for all glasses-wearing nerds because…I am not one…and…um…

Jesus doesn’t care that you tattooed his fish onto your hip. In fact, he might be frowning from the right hand of God right now, because you purposefully put it there in order to look sexy. I understand that many people feel that their faith is so important to them that they want to permanently mark their body with it, but…well, actually, I don’t understand that. Because I thought that faith was meant to be spiritual, not physical, and I’m pretty sure it’s not meant to be shown off while wearing a bathing suit.

And finally, stop putting inspiring posters/plaques up in your dorm room. I don’t want to walk into a room and be immediately told to live.laugh.love. or some other nonsense. And for heaven’s sake…the God sayings have to end.

Now that I’ve proven that I’m a total grump, have a wonderful day!

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Then Michael Kors Asked Me for a Cupcake


My sister and I were wandering around the city the other night when we spotted a woman staggering about in the mall. My sister, nursing student and good Samaritan that she is, went over to ask if the woman needed help, since she seemed completely normal other than the fact that she was having a hard time walking. After yelling at my sister to not touch her, she walked away and toward a store, where she leaned against the window. We stood there and watched, like typical dodos, and after a couple seconds someone came out of the store and started talking to the woman. And that was when I heard eleven words I never thought I’d hear:

“Hi, I’m Michael Kors, I’m the designer here. Are you okay?”

I laughed at first, because hello Mikey, I don’t think she cares who you are or what you do since she’s about to fall over. But then I kinda peed myself because…it was Michael Kors. Ten feet away from me. Talking to a woman who may or may not have had drugs in her system. Outside his store. Close to me. Breathing my air. Talking to a woman I had seen. Etc.

My sister and I walked away once we knew the woman would be okay, but once we were out of earshot I kind of tweaked out. “That was Michael Kors!! OH MY GOD.” Apparently my sister hadn’t heard him say his name, so she didn’t realize it was him, but I was pretty sure I recognized his face from the days when I was obsessed with Project Runway, so I Googled him on my phone (because I’m obviously not fashionable enough to recognize designers by their faces, but definitely fashionable enough to wear chinchila. Or wait, no, I meant clothes).

And then she said these fateful words: “Should we go back? I can tell him I can’t afford his stuff, but I do like his line Michael by Michael Kors.” And then I snorted, like the amazing fashionista I am not. Because hello, anyone who is anyone and knows anything knows that she was mistaking him for Marc Jacobs, as in Marc by Marc Jacobs. I am so much better than you. Listen to me, for I am amazing. (Edit: I later found out that there is a Michael by Michael Kors, further solidifying that I am not a fashionista and am just a giant blockhead.)

Needless to say, we went back. Back to his store, holding a box of cupcakes we’d just bought. Marched right in there, risking the safety of countless leather purses and shoes, because frosting can cause nasty spotting in leather…I think. Past watches more expensive than my kidneys, pretending to browse while all the while internally screeching “MICHAEL KORS!!”
He spotted our cupcakes and said, “Those are for me, right?” So basically, Michael Kors initiated a conversation with me. Or my sister. Or our box of cupcakes. Either way, I’m never washing this hand again…um…

Basically, all this tripe and writing and storytelling and ridiculousness and…anyway, its all led up to this: my sister and I had a ten minute (count ’em, ten) long conversation with Michael Kors in which he ogled our cupcakes (and I do mean cupcakes, you freaks), told us he’d had them before, and I insulted his weight. It was an accident. I swear. I don’t want to talk about it. But it did result in him saying, “Bless your heart” after I apologized profusely.

Also, he’s shorter than I imagined. And nicer.

So…real quick, can I have a total freak out? Okay. I MET MICHAEL KORS AND NOW THE DEGREE OF SEPARATION BETWEEN ME, HEIDI KLUM, NINA GARCIA, TIM GUNN, AND A WHOLE BUNCH OF SUPER SKINNY MODELS IS ONE. ONE DEGREE. ONE DEGREE OF SEPARATION.

Sorry about that. I guess the fame is getting to me. But don’t worry…someday…you’ll all be as famous as I am. It’s okay. Don’t feel bad about yourselves.

Moral of the story: help staggering women in the mall and you will automatically meet someone famous. God bless you, staggering woman. I don’t want y’all to think I forgot about her or her troubles, so I should mention that I saw her the next day at that very same mall and she was staggering less. So that’s good, right? Right.

And that is the story of Michael and the Cupcakes. Sweet dreams, children.

Your Gay Friend Is Not a Fashion Statement


He is just your friend…who happens to be gay.

Why is it that we are so accepting of gays who are flamboyant, open, and feminine, but are sometimes less accepting of those who are more introverted and quiet? At times, we allow ourselves to be friends with homosexual men solely because of that homosexuality.  This sexuality is not necessarily a defining character trait, but sometimes it’s all we see: not that they’re people, but that they’re gay. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with being flamboyant; on the contrary, people with personality are vital to my happiness and sanity, and none of this is meant to take away from exciting, loving people. (I like watching Sassy Gay Friend videos as much as the next person.) But society is starting to expect all gays to be the same sex-machine, cut from the same mold.

This goes both ways: people prejudiced against gays tend to focus solely on their sexual identities, completely ignoring their other qualities. But those of us who are “OK with Gay” (although we’re constantly saying “there is no one type of gay; everyone is different,”) still put them into molds. We want our gay friend to help us shop and giggle about cute boys with us. We expect him to have a super-sexy boyfriend and love Liza Minelli. We want him to act just like our girlfriends. But the truth is, gay boys are still boys. They aren’t always feminine, cute, tall and rugged, or fashionable. And though we think we’ve surpassed stereotyping gays, we haven’t. We still expect them to come in a gift basket along with Glee, valley-girl accents, and Lady Gaga. They’re constantly portrayed in movies solely as silly, hip-wiggling fashion consultants, even though there are probably a thousand gay businessmen out there who act and look like everyone else.

If we’re so accepting of homosexuals, why does everyone expect lesbians to have short hair and big muscles? I don’t see many straight guys looking to elevate their social statuses with lesbian arm candy. 

 We just have to understand we can’t only love people for being cute and fun and girly. Of course we should be friends with them; I have gay friends who I absolutely adore, but not because they’re gay. When we idolize a guy and accept him into our lives just because he likes boys too, we stomp on every step gays have made toward their goal of being accepted as human beings. We have to look past someone’s sexuality (and stop speculating on it for heaven’s sake: who even cares if that guy over there is gay?) and become friends with them because we want to know who they are, not who they like.