...and it's so unexpected but it just fits and you wonder where it came from, well, maybe it came from here:
How could you resist it?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I heard...
Brit Brit was at my work today. I didn't see her, but remember when she did this?
And this?
That's when I realized there was a little Whitney in Britney. I know I'm supposed to obsess over someone more indie, like her
or her
and, don't get me wrong, they're lovely, but can a girl have a guilty pleasure?
And this?
That's when I realized there was a little Whitney in Britney. I know I'm supposed to obsess over someone more indie, like her
or her
and, don't get me wrong, they're lovely, but can a girl have a guilty pleasure?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
It was anticlimatic to most: people drinking PBR, swaying to some music I couldn't be bothered to recognize. If I'm being honest, it was anticlimatic to me, too. Just all the same people I always see acting like they're not all terrified of turning 30 and still being at the same shitty party. Linda was talking to a tranny.
Linda: (whispering to me) is there weed on my lip? I'm so stoned. You should make friends. Then you can be too stoned to leave, too.
Tranny: (passing Linda an overly phallic pipe) So if you wanna go to the Bob Dylan show, I can absolutely get you in. You just have to wait by the back door. Wear something exactly like that. You know, casual. Flannel. I'll be wearing a yellow mini, but we can't have too many of us dressed like that.
I felt like I should be amused but I was too busy feeling like an asshole for going to a party where I knew I'd see He Who Shall Not Be Named with his new boo. As I halfway partook in halfway conversations, I couldn't help but think how on the other side of the screen door, the dude I'd lusted for for months was pretend fighting with a 19 year old. Pretend fighting as a method of foreplay which is both fascinating and gross if it's someone you used to fuck that you're observing. I wondered if he was too drunk or too outside of the realm of morality to recognize how rude he was, even if we were attemping (again) to be just friends. I began to form this half-assed daydream about exacting my revenge, dry-humping on the dancefloor, etc but as always, I grew tired when I realized that there is no way to make someone give a shit about you if they don't give a shit about you. And he does not, will not ever give a shit about me.
The weirdest part, though, was that when I actually thought about how it was that I felt, I noticed that I felt nothing except kinda bored. It was like realizing that my favorite toy, the one I'd been playing with for months, was actually a piece of fossilized dogshit that had turned white from the sun. It had no value. It had no purpose. It didn't even smell like shit anymore. It was just a tiny little nothing.
I worked my way through the room, hugging every person I knew and answering questions about my impending move. How the fuck did they already know, I wondered. I hadn't even uttered the words. Was everyone at this bullshit party fucking psycic? No matter. This was as good as any other night for an impromptu going away party. I played it up, telling people I'd miss them, I'd write, I'd be back, I'd give Bianca a hug for them.
On my way out, I passed Voldemort again. He barely looked at me and when he did, his eyes were red and watery. I knew he was shitfaced. I didn't say anything. Instead, I smiled, extended my arm and offered up a truce in the form of a fist bump. He looked vaguely guilty, like a child that shit in the bathtub, but I was beaming, thinking that if I'm lucky, I'd never see that silly little fuck again.
Linda: (whispering to me) is there weed on my lip? I'm so stoned. You should make friends. Then you can be too stoned to leave, too.
Tranny: (passing Linda an overly phallic pipe) So if you wanna go to the Bob Dylan show, I can absolutely get you in. You just have to wait by the back door. Wear something exactly like that. You know, casual. Flannel. I'll be wearing a yellow mini, but we can't have too many of us dressed like that.
I felt like I should be amused but I was too busy feeling like an asshole for going to a party where I knew I'd see He Who Shall Not Be Named with his new boo. As I halfway partook in halfway conversations, I couldn't help but think how on the other side of the screen door, the dude I'd lusted for for months was pretend fighting with a 19 year old. Pretend fighting as a method of foreplay which is both fascinating and gross if it's someone you used to fuck that you're observing. I wondered if he was too drunk or too outside of the realm of morality to recognize how rude he was, even if we were attemping (again) to be just friends. I began to form this half-assed daydream about exacting my revenge, dry-humping on the dancefloor, etc but as always, I grew tired when I realized that there is no way to make someone give a shit about you if they don't give a shit about you. And he does not, will not ever give a shit about me.
The weirdest part, though, was that when I actually thought about how it was that I felt, I noticed that I felt nothing except kinda bored. It was like realizing that my favorite toy, the one I'd been playing with for months, was actually a piece of fossilized dogshit that had turned white from the sun. It had no value. It had no purpose. It didn't even smell like shit anymore. It was just a tiny little nothing.
I worked my way through the room, hugging every person I knew and answering questions about my impending move. How the fuck did they already know, I wondered. I hadn't even uttered the words. Was everyone at this bullshit party fucking psycic? No matter. This was as good as any other night for an impromptu going away party. I played it up, telling people I'd miss them, I'd write, I'd be back, I'd give Bianca a hug for them.
On my way out, I passed Voldemort again. He barely looked at me and when he did, his eyes were red and watery. I knew he was shitfaced. I didn't say anything. Instead, I smiled, extended my arm and offered up a truce in the form of a fist bump. He looked vaguely guilty, like a child that shit in the bathtub, but I was beaming, thinking that if I'm lucky, I'd never see that silly little fuck again.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Hooker with an eye for gold...
Ms. Bobby Gentry. Is or is not her dancing the most awkwardamazingness you ever saw?
And incase you grew up in a rural area in the 80's, too, Ms. Reba McEntire's own take on the most fantastic ode to the justification of prostitution the world has ever known.
It's like what would happen if you mixed an MJ mini-movie and Glamourshots. Which is to say I love it.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
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