Baby Voices, Baby Makers

I don't care for grown women who speak with forced little girl voices. To me, a baby voice indicates childhood abuse, presumably of the sexual nature. This is not a joke, but it is somehow kinda funny. A baby voice is as much a spotlight on one's blatant insecurity as a monster truck or a really ridiculous tit job, in my ever so humble opinion. There is, however, a loophole in my disdain for people who walk around all day with their issues showing. I find it acceptable to air your daddy issues, fear of abandonment, qualms about your sexuality, etc in a creative manner.

Here are two videos from ladies who have found there way around my No Baby Voices rule and wiggled their way straight into my heart.




Note the crop top.




Doesn't this song just make your ovaries dance? If you have them, that is? It makes me, possibly the least domestic person that has ever avoided laundry for months, want to buy some maribou kitten heels and learn how to darn socks. And make roast.


P.S. Thank you B and thank you Jordie. You know why.

Today, today

I have had this skirt for at least 7 years. For the first couple years of owning it, everywhere I'd go, people'd wanna know if I made it. Now when I wear it, no one asks. Have I started to look talentless?

Croptember, Birthday Edition

I met her at a shady afterhours. I put her number into my phone as Jen BFF Messer within a few minutes of having met her.
I was right.
This bitch is dynamite.


Happy Birthday to the sharpest little knife I know.

And so it begins...

99 Depressed Balloons

Two things:
1. The most boring thing in the world: when people complain about
their illnesses. Being sick and having birthdays are two things that
everyone experiences but no one but your mama really cares about.
Spare us all and let's talk about something interesting, like Gossip
Girl or the difference between men and women or just read me your
grocery list or something.

2. I am sick and I hate it. My chest hurts and I am coughing up
Nickelodeon slime and nobody is making me soup or rubbing my body down
with Vick's. On top of the physical discomfort, there's the imagery. I
am less than comforted by the knowledge that right now, the Mucinex
snot family is having a rager in my lungs and that they've invited the
whole gang. Those fucking digging fungus cat monsters are scratching
shit up, rubbing their feet on the couch. The weak-bladdered pipe
robots are pissing in the sink and using their own limbs for beer
bongs. I'm pretty sure that that goddamn allergy bee with the nasal
spray is probably there, doing key bumps in the bathroom, talking like
Antonio Banderas about the 80's when it snowed every night on Sunset
Blvd.

Fuck you, Big Pharma. My laziness grants me a certain amount of
blissful ignorance when it comes to all your evil, but I draw the line
at the amorphization of my illnesses. I'm already scared of dying. I
do not need a mascot.

That is all.

P.S. Here's some ideas for your next buzz-disease/disgusting-yet-endearing-companion-animal combo:

*Excema Ants- Why shouldn't your brain itch, too?
*Teddy the Bipolar Polar Bear- Basically the Coca Cola bear but like
crying and lauging and not being able to get out of bed.
*Arthritis Vultures- Dry bones and beady eyes, etc.
*Boner Snakes- I don't really know what that means but it would make a
good band name.

P.P.S. Hey there, recent Art Institute grad. Is this what you thought
you'd do with that degree in graphic design?

I can do without a lot of things,
But I can't live without grilled cheese.

(Repeat)

(This is the password. For the treehouse. You have to say it like you mean it or it won't work.)