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.

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Death By Black Hole


I think I accidentally drop my belongings inside a black hole. Or a garden gnome follows me around. Or maybe my dog ate it. Wait…I don’t have a dog. Whatever the case, I lost my sunglasses the other day and am pretty sure I’ll never find them again. And I really liked those sunglasses…they were lime green.

I am a messy person. I can deal with that. After a while I go crazy and realize that there is just too much clutter, so I go on a major multi-day cleaning spree until everything is tidy again. Then I feel like my life is beginning again and I get all zen until a month later when I just don’t feel like taking that extra step to put my socks in their proper drawer. So my room becomes the black hole again. I fondly call it the abyss, but nobody else finds it amusing. They’re probably too busy wading through every pair of pants I’ve ever owned to worry about being polite.

Basically, I am a five-year-old. I just want my mommy to pick up after me. Actually, she frequently does, and for that I am grateful, but I should probably start picking my underwear off the staircase. Especially when company comes.

Are you messy? You should be. People who are annoyingly tidy freak me out. Don’t you want your home to look like you live in it? Complete sterility makes me nauseous. Go for the tortured artist look; you know, the one that says “I spent five hours writing this short story about a woman who throws pots until she goes insane. It’s so deep. I don’t have time to be deep AND clean.” That’s what I try for. The sunken eyed look and heroin arms* probably help me in that department too, but I’m telling you, it’s the MESSINESS. The art cannot flourish in a sterile, completely white environment.

Remember, “One cannot paint upon a pure white marble slate. One must muss it up with dirt first.” – Me. Oh yeah. You know how I do.

Note: I don’t actually do heroin and I sincerely hope my eyes don’t look sunken. Why would you say that about me?