Category Archives: pop culture

“Black/Blue Are the New Pink!” – The Vogue Cover Controversy

For those of you who don’t know, I’m a huge fan of Yahoo! journalism (fan being the keyword, despite my deliberately confusing use of italics). See, I’m not a fan in the traditional sense in that my feelings about Yahoo! Journalism are comparable to those I have for kitten road kill;  it sickens me, but forces me to question my own humanity when I can’t take my eyes off of it.  And while I’d rather obtain my global headlines from more legitimate sources like The New York Times or TMZ, when the only cost associated with reading Yahoo! is my brain’s slow but steady decay caused by  constant exposure to Kim Kardashian cellulite pictures and headline videos of misbehaving cats, I feel it’s a pretty good trade off.


Today while at work wasting my potential as always, I decided to scour Yahoo! for contemporary pop culture references I could use to make myself seem wittier than I am, when I saw

Sup, Kate Moss?

an article titled ““Model Pose Sparks Outcry”.” Now for me, anything involving models is undeniably fascinating since they are sort of like an Earth bound alien species, with their over-sized heads and skeletal body types, so needless to say I couldn’t resist this scintillating (not really) headline.

But as with every Yahoo article that assumes illiteracy among the masses, after clicking a link to actually read it, I was automatically redirected to a ridiculous video involving worthless human beings talking with authority about topics on which they are not actual authorities, while trying to be funny and younger than they are.  I can’t tolerate those sorts of things, even when I do them, so I am admittedly reacting solely to the text.

Basically Vogue published a sensual/sexual/does anyone know the difference between those words anymore (?) cover, featuring model Stephanie Seymour being “choked” by some irrelevant male model no one cares about.  Apparently this caused “feminist outcry” by four not-valid-enough-to-name women’s advocacy organizations who are claiming the cover promotes domestic violence. They are now pushing Vogue to pull the magazine.


So, I have considered myself a feminist since I was six years old and first declared to my mother that “I don’t need a man” and will never marry because it was stupid. Though I’m sure she took it more as an early sign of lesbianism than political advocacy, I can assure you that it was probably meant as the latter. But throughout my entire life I have had to defend that label (feminist, not lesbian) to men and women who called feminists crazy, man-hating boner-shrinkers.  I don’t like it, but it comes with the territory.

However, I have to admit it gets increasingly difficult to defend feminists when they continue to pull legitimacy from the actual problems women face in the world, by making headlines over utter silliness.   I can see being upset if the cover looked like this:

I kill at photo shop

But it doesnt. This is a ridiculous thing to be upset about. The actual cover is hardly promoting violence,  what with the vacant sex faces and sup-par grope fest.  And honestly, who cares about the self-proclaimed edginess Vogue attempts to exude? The female demographic Vogue largely caters to is assustomed to having their self esteem beaten down month after month; this may be an emotional relief. But mostly, I can’t handle the fact that something as inconsequential as this can garner more attention than many of the legitimate problems women face in the world. Therefore I give you the following list:

Things More Offensive to Women Than This Ad

1. The lack of maternity leave in the United states.

2. The fact that women’s reproductive rights are still used as a wedge issues in politics.

3. The fact that there are still countries around the world that allow child brides, public stoning, and female circumcision.

4. The fact that according to the Institute for Women’s Policy Research, around the world 1 in 3 women have been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise abused.

5. The report by the Journal of American Medical Association saying 1 out of 5 high school girls is in a physically or sexually abusive relationship.


These are just some of the many issues that men and women should be concerned about, as well as countless others involving other demographics. Why advocacy organizations continue to waste their energy on petty campaigns that diminsh their reputation and the reputation of all feminists is beyond me.

Perhaps it’s a Romney/Ryan conspiracy. What do you think?


The girl who can’t just ask people why they are white

not at all related to this post

Napping on Toilets and Answering All of Your Googled Questions

I recently fell asleep on the toilet.

I’m not going to say where I was or how it happened, but I will tell you I was getting paid at the time and it wasn’t an accident. While I admit I am slightly ashamed of my inappropriate slumber, overall I feel pretty okay about it. After all, some people shower with kids at their jobs. I just fell asleep. Lena  – 1, Penn State Staff – 0.

Still this has me slightly concerned. Not just about my evident narcolepsy but the fact that I am so un-stimulated at my current employment that I can disappear to the bathroom for ten minutes and nap without anyone in my three-person office noticing. Really makes one feel a sense of value in the American workforce.

Nevertheless, I have decided that I can’t let this happen again. If I’m going to disappear for ten minutes, unnoticed, I’d rather it be to do something really important like read US Weekly in the bookstore or talk to Butch, the new janitor who likes to wink at me while stroking his mop. Just kidding. I stroke it for him.

Nothing in the last paragraph is true.

Anyway. Today while driving home from work I started to think, which was a strange adjustment after five hours of not thinking at all, about all of the other people in the world who are as un-stimulated by their work as I am, and wondering how they handle it. It didn’t take a great deal of brain power to determine the answer to all of life’s inevitably dull moments.

Now, everyone knows that I have a special place in my heart reserved for people who Google ridiculous things, because more often than not they end up at my blog. I’m not sure how it happens. I’m not sure how the search phrase “sometimes I feel sad and then I remember I have a nice big round ass” brings someone to my blog. But it does and it makes me happy.

So when I got home I decided to review all of the Google search terms that brought people to my blog in the past month, and much to my irrational level of happiness, I discovered that many a lost soul has reached my blog through deep, heart-wrenching, questions entered in the Google search box, only to be lost in the abyss of porn and pictures of cats that make up 96% of the content of the Internet.

Because of this, I have decided that I will take this time to respond to only the most imperative of questions my blog was formerly unable to answer. Here we go.

1.       How tall is Kris Jenner?

Kris Jenner is 5 feet of unfortunate fertility and 6 inches of erectile dysfunction.

Kris Jenner is a 56 year old woman

2.       What are the worst things for a man to say to woman?


Woman: “Do these jeans make me look fat?”

Man: “Not as much as the ones you wore yesterday.”


Man: “It’s a lucky man that gets her pregnant.”

Woman: “That’s our daughter you’re talking about!”


3.       Do Italians like skinny or curvy women?


Italians aren’t selective. They love women. All women. In fact, Italian men love women so much that by default, one gay Italian man will have more heterosexual sex in one month than four straight Jewish men will in their entire lives. I didn’t just make this up.


But realistically, every woman will have sex with at least one Italian man in her life. If she doesn’t she might be a lesbian, but is probably just a Mormon. In which case she will have lots of unsatisfying arranged sex with a much older man she is possibly related to, enough times that she will decide she hates all men, including Italians.

Mormonism: the everyday cure to female heterosexuality.


PS: Sorry, Mormons.


4.       Why is it that that other woman has big legs?


An evolutionary defense against short Italians. And all Mormons.


5.       Why is my urine very orange?


There are only three reasons urine is ever orange.

A. You have liver disease. Good luck with that

B. You eat too many carrots. F*** you.

C. You live in New Jersey. All of the above


Jersey Girls: So hot, even their pee burns!

6.       Who is that tattooed man drinking coffee and wearing a pea coat?

It’s difficult to say without seeing the man in question, but nine times out of ten, it’s Taylor Lautner pretending to be straight.












7.       How can I tell if a girl is wearing a butt pad?

Her butt cheeks are disproportionate to her desperation.


8.       Are meth addicts proud of their addiction?



9.       Why do I curse so much?


Because socially forbidden words are more satisfying to use than academically impressive ones.

And you know once you’re old it will be really funny.


10.   What is it like to live alone with a pet dog?

Depressing. No one else you ever live with will love you so much they will hold their pee for 9 hours until they see you. It’s all downhill from there.


That’s all for now.

Any questions?


The girl with tan shoes and pink shoelaces

Real Women Have Confidence

It’s no secret that I’m an overweight, pale, blonde girl. I wear double digit clothing sizes, makeup that is literally labeled “translucent” and have hair so light I would appear to have lesser eyebrows than Whoopi Goldberg. In other words I could moonlight as a beer wench at Oktoberfest any day of the week.

Yet my entire life people have treated me as if I were somehow unaware of my appearance. Phrases like “the South Beach Diet would work perfect for you!” and “OMG, like, what’s with your skin?” have been thrown at me since I was five and a girl on the playground told me I looked like an apple, a body type label that has stuck with me throughout adulthood.

In high school I spent many nights lying awake in my bed thinking about every part of my body that was flawed. My hair was too thick, my brow bone too strong, cheeks too chubby, arms too flabby, boobs too big, boobs too small, skin too broken out, stomach too big, thighs too thick, legs too short, skin too pale, hips too wide, butt too small, feet too arched, etc. Every part of my appearance was a disappointment to me and the constant reminder via CW dramas, flawless high school peers, and thoughtless family members and strangers, that there was a better alternative to me and all of my imperfections, that I could never and would never physically attain, made me ache inside to see a reflection that was no reflection of me. It was this kind of mindset which made me value being told I was “pretty” as a greater compliment than being told I was “smart, funny, kind, talented, creative,” etc.

It has been six years since high school graduation but I have only in the last two started to feel like I am not some kind of mangled rawhide, covered in slobber and dog hair, lying on the floor of an illegal puppy mill in Idaho. Vivid, I know. But perception evolves with the passage of time and what I couldn’t see when I was in high school is that I am actually pretty. Not to everyone of course, but to myself.

But my reason for writing this has nothing to do with how gorgeous I think my hair is now or how classy I think my pale skin is, and how even though I need to lose some weight for health purposes, I no longer want to be thin. I’m writing this because I think the biggest problem with the issue of beauty is that beauty doesn’t actually exist. Beauty is an intangible perception of something else that cannot be proven, but merely argued. Which leads me to my next point: the sickness of comparative beauty.

There’s a strange movement right now in our culture. On one hand, models look more emaciated than ever, and on the other women like Christina Hendricks are garnering mad attention for their naturally curvy bodies. Pictures like this are being passed around the internet:



While I can grasp that this is trying to send a positive message that thicker girls are just as sexy, if not sexier to some than skinny girls, I hate the fact that we need to tear one group down to lift up another. I also hate that the definition of female beauty is being dictated by the men who date them, designers who dress them, and people like Perez Hilton. I also hate that instead of rebelling against this system, we women allow it and promote it by being competitive with other women, diminishing each other for our differences. And lastly I hate that in a world of increased eating disorders, skin cancer rates, and deaths related to cosmetic surgery, we live in a culture that still promotes the constant alteration of our bodies. Viewing our faces and our bodies as blank slates for culture to imprint all over is a recipe for self-destruction.

Forget the fact that a few centuries ago artists would have had a throw down over who gets to paint me naked, in today’s society, I and so many other girls are not considered the “ideal” for one reason or another. But the fact is, that even despite the after-school special undertones of what I’m about to say, everyone is beautiful to someone, in their own way. Blonde or brunette, curvy or thin, fair, or tan or black, or whatever other generalized term we can create to label ourselves, everyone is beautiful because they are different. Because there are no two people EXACTLY alike. Because no person will ever be duplicated. Everyone is the master copy of themselves, which makes us each pretty undeniably special. And sometimes being special is actually better than being just like everything else.

So before you tan your skin to make it look more like someone else’s, or dye your hair to fit in with the trends, just think about the fact that you are the only person in the world with that skin color and that hair, and by choosing to make it some other color, you are choosing to say goodbye to one of the things that makes you unique. Let’s all learn to accept each other and ourselves for who we are so we can all live together in fat, skinny, ugly, pretty, peace.

And remember, real women have confidence, and sometimes that’s all we needs.


The girl still working on the confidence thing

Dave Matthews is More Important Than My Blog

Tonight I am going to a Dave Matthews Band concert. If you  go on his website, look at his tour dates, find out where I live, and come murder me right there on the lawn, you can. But that wouldn’t be my preference.

Happy Memorial Day, ya’ll. Or something else more jam bandy.


The girl with a little bit of heaven and a little bit of “hell yeah!”


She Blinded Me With Science!!!…and a Day Off

Tomorrow is my day off. My first day off since May 6th. It’s like, a totally big deal. Among other things, I am going to attempt to do the following:

  1. Sew pillows for my couch  Learn how to sew
  2. Break my sewing machine
  3.  Cut myself   Shave my legs
  4. Write something good decent
  5.  Clean my car Generate an excuse for why I can’t clean my car

As you can see, I have rad plans for a bitchin’ existence.

Diving headfirst into my day off with some mad productivity, I have captured screen shots from my favorite parts of the music video for Thomas Dolby’s “She Blinded Me With Science”; the best song and video ever created by man or highly-skilled therapy dogs. I imagine they are the only other mammal with video recording capabilities.

I can’t quite explain how this represents mad productivity. But I also can’t explain how Ron Jeremy was a sex symbol. The world is a mysterious place.

Thomas Dolby – She Blinded Me With Science (Screenshots)

An absolutely understandable reaction to an old man screaming “science”

An absolutely acceptable reaction to scoring in croquet

An absolutely normal group of old men dancing with canes for no reasons

An absolutely fantastic way to end a video: pushing an old man in a wheelchair into a lake

You need to watch this video. I predict it will rank in the top 10 great experiences of your life, after seeing Shakira bellydance live, before winning a watermelon seed spitting contest.


I also predict Thomas Dolby to be the next L. Ron Hubbard with irrelevant celebrities like Bam Margera and Niki Hilton leading the way in development of a new cult religion. One that will blind them with science.


The girl who hopes to enter a serious relationship in the next 3 hours so she can make legitimate plans with a significant other that do not leave her feeling empty inside.

“How I Came to Love Bob Dylan”

WARNING: This post will probably not be very funny. In fact, this post will not be funny at all. If you want funny, go to Yahoo News. They’re terrible reporters. It’s a hoot.

For those of you who have read this blog before, you have probably detected my slight obsession with Bob Dylan. By slight obsession I mean borderline psychotic feelings of love for him, comparable to that which a mother feels for her child or Hugh Hefner feels for implants.

He’s so cool


But as a 23 year old woman who admittedly listened to complete and utter garbage until the age of 18, you may be asking yourself “How Lena did you get from Dashboard Confessional suicide tracks and Nelly remixes to Bob Dylan”? I know. The anticipation is ruining you.

So I thought to myself, what better day to answer this question than Bob Dylan’s 71st birthday.


Here is the true, very unfunny story:


In the fall of 2007 I was a sophomore at a mid-sized college in Pennsylvania; a rural setting settled between two small, somewhat ghetto fabulous cities. Despite this, the college town and campus were relatively safe places for clueless, lightweight 19 year olds such as me to roam alone at all hours of the night and even for the occasional tryst to class.


But just two weeks into the fall semester things drastically changed.  On the streets of our small town a student was brutally murdered by a group of non-students visiting a downtown bar. The story went that the student was leaving his brother’s house in town and walking back to the campus, alone, around 2:30am when a group of men he did not know attacked him in a completely random act of violence, beating him to death and leaving him to die on the street.


The crime shook the campus. What always felt like a safe place suddenly felt extremely unsafe. Charges were filed and the men in custody were rung through the legal system with too much leniency in my opinion. In the week following his death, those who chose to pay attention learned a great deal about the student through University newspaper articles and press releases. Apparently he was a cute, 19 year old history major, who wrote poetry, hated pop culture, and loved Bob Dylan.


Reading about this boy, reading his poetry in a book the school published in his memory, made me feel extremely connected to him, despite the fact that we had never met. Every day following his death I read his Facebook wall; the heartbroken posts from friends, family members, his girlfriend, all asking the same questions and mourning the same loss of one person who was victimized by brutality that had nothing to do with him.


On the one week anniversary of his death, word got around that the school was organizing a candlelight vigil for him at the time and site of his death. I was determined to attend and after talking to my roommate she agreed to go along. We left around 2:00 am to walk downtown to the site, after gathering a few more reluctant girls from our dorm reminding them that if this was their brother or sister or friend, they would want as many people as possible to show.


Small groups of students filtered out of their dorms and off campus apartments, dressed in hoodies and pajama bottoms, some holding candles, others only holding back tears. Most of us didn’t know the boy who was killed, but that didn’t seem to matter. At the site there were police barricades, hundreds of students, and soft pools of candlelight filtering through the night air, as we encircled the spot of pavement, still stained with his blood and freshly blotted with tears.


I took a candle from someone passing them out and stood quietly in place. For the distance of the street, students continued in crowds in an act of solidarity I didn’t expect to exist. Some representatives of the University spoke, thanking us for our attendance and offering emotional condolences to the family and friends of the boy.


His brother stepped up and thanked us all saying he never imagined so many people would come. He said his brother was one of a kind, a free-spirit, a loving, creative, energetic force, who believed in the powers of love and imagination. He said a few days earlier, at his brother’s funeral, as they lowered him into the ground they heard a train whistle in the distance and all collectively felt that this was his way of saying goodbye. He said that if there was anything his brother would want it would be for all of us to be kinder to one another, to stop watching TV, to step outside and enjoy the wind and the rain, and read a book, and fall asleep under a tree. And then he said, after a few seconds of silence, “just listen to Bob Dylan.”


I’m not sure why, but I heard this in a very real way. After his sister and his girlfriend cried together, they announced that they were going to play his favorite Bob Dylan song and they asked anyone who knew the song to sing along.


I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back I think it was either “Girl From the North Country” or “Boots of Spanish Leather.” Either way it was the first time I ever heard the song. After it ended, we all returned to our rooms and the warmth of our beds. Days passed and conversations resumed to topics discussed before this tragedy, but I couldn’t forget about the boy who died and I couldn’t forget about his brother’s words to “just listen to Bob Dylan.”


After a few months of Dylan discovery I began to understand and five years later as a passionately enlightened fan I fully do.


Bob Dylan is more than just a musician or Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inductee. He is more than the songs played on classic rock stations and the influence for every singer-songwriter with untraditional singing voices. Bob Dylan is a human being who has been able to transcend generations, genders, races, religions, and political ideologies with his unique ability to capture the collective feelings of failure and success in the human experience. His words inspire in his fans to live and to be a certain way that has nothing to do with fulfilling expectations of others or herding with the masses, but rather to be true deep down in the soul of our individualism, to who we are and what we believe in separate from societal pressures. He captures the raw ugliness of human emotion and flaw and makes it something beautiful. Bob Dylan manages through his words and his music to connect so deeply with his fans that at a candlelight vigil to honor an untimely death of a young man, his music is that which is played and his influence is that which is mentioned.

So I’d like to take a moment to wish Bob Dylan a Happy 71st Birthday and remind him that I would still pay to have his babies. Anytime, Bob. Anytime.




The girl who will be funny again tomorrow. Or not. Whatever.

One of the best versions of one of the best Bob Dylan songs EVER

Top 5 Most Embarrassing Songs Found On My iPod

My iPod is passing away. It’s currently attempting recuperation on my iPod dock, unable to play above a whisper, with the occasional static of an old age cough, but really there is little hope. My iPod is from 1978, an early model not even Steve Jobs is familiar with, and although it has served me well for several years even prior to my birth, it is nearing its demise and all I can really do is get down on my knees and pray to the Apple customer service that it is only a fluke. That tomorrow, everything will be back to the way it used to be before the pain of inevitable loss set in…
But life most go on and to prepare myself for an iPodless life I have decided to single out the 5 most embarrassing songs found on my iPod that make the idea of life without it, a little more manageable.
1.      “Get Your Freak On” – Missy Elliot
This might not be embarrassing for most people. But I am not most people. I have zero rhythm and a translucent skin tone and it is physically impossible for me to listen to this song without gyrating in some aesthetically unpleasing fashion, taking the suggestion to “get my freak on” far too literally.
2.      “I Love My Bitch” – Busta Rhymes
How did this get on my iPod? I’d love to claim ignorance here, but during senior week at Ocean City, MD after high school graduation, a group of friends and I walked into a boardwalk tshirt shop where this musical gem was playing. I have never felt so emotionally fulfilled by a song in my life and as I listened to the repetitive phrase “I love my bitch” resonating off of the retractable walls of the shop, a single glistening tear trickled down my cheek.
3.      “Hey Juliet” – LMNT
“I think—
You’re fine—
You really blow my mind—
One day—
You and me can run away—“
And then we can kill ourselves.
4.      “Imagine” – Jane French
This isn’t even a real song. That’s how embarrassing it is. This monstrosity of a love song is a fictional single featured on the now \-cancelled soap opera Passions. In middle school my sister and I watched Passions every day after school with bated breath.
Will Ethan ever leave Gwen for Theresa?
Will Ivy ever tell Sam that Ethan is his son?
Will Sheridan ever discover why she has dreams about killing her mother?
Will Tabitha find a replacement for her talking doll?
With questions like this, need I explain the embarrassment of this song?
5.      “One the Way Down” – Ryan Cabrera/”Bare Naked” – Jennifer Love Hewitt
These are both equally disturbing however since I have already featured “Bare Naked” in a previous blog entry, I think I owe Ryan a little time in the spotlight. Even if its for creating horrible music.
This song came out when I was in high school. When I was in high school I was silly, washed up, idealistic twit. I thought Ashlee Simpson was cool. The worst part is, I actually remember thinking this was a great song. Like, I can recall the words “Ryan Cabrera is a great songwriter” coming out of my mouth. It’s no wonder the God’s of music sent me Bob Dylan. I needed saving.
The girl who can’t deal with loss, or death, or the smell of water chestnuts

“Me and My Tit Arm”: A Story of Cell Phone Abuse

So I’m thinking I might detonate my cell phone. Every time I wear clothing without pockets and realize I have nowhere to put my cell phone, I feel incredibly unsettled with my person hood. As if I grew a third arm between my tits that I suddenly have to find a way to manage. That’s how I feel when I have a cell phone and no pockets. Like I have an arm between my tits. Awkward, lumpy, displaced. I end up thinking to myself, “why don’t I just cut off this tit arm? It’s ugly and a liability while driving. No one needs this kind of tit arm upset in their life!” I think it. I acknowledge it. Yet each night, when I go to bed I have to be careful not to crush my tit arm.

But even on my most pocketed of days, I often find myself wondering how much happier I would be without a cell phone. A cell phone is a stress-inducing parasite. It is an obnoxious, embarrassing, unpredictable force residing deep within our pockets, like a Fran Drescher gnome, always waiting to explode into a fit of noise so unbearable we have no choice but to interrupt all other activities to make it stop. And after minimal conditioning where we accept the presence of “the nanny in our pants” we become obsessed with it. We hear phantom ringtones, feel phantom vibrations, checking our cell phones whenever we go more than 30 minutes without receiving a call or text. “Maybe it’s malfunctioning? Maybe I don’t have good service. Oh, wait it’s probably just on silent!”

Because what are cell phones aside from the constant reminder that yes, we are connected with the world and no, no one in the world cares? When you have a cell phone, you are available all day every day. So when you go a few hours without receiving a phone call or a text message you start to evaluate your worth as a human being and long-term relevance to the universe. It’s only natural. If you were sitting in a room with another person and that other person wasn’t talking to you, you’d be offended. Same goes with cell phones. If you know someone has the ability to talk to you but is choosing not to, it starts to diminish your feelings of self-importance. Because the (very) unfortunate truth is that cell phones are the umbilical cord between insecure people and the rest of the world, constantly feeding the need for love and attention by allowing meaningless interaction with others, while ironically, diminishing the actual connection between those very people.

Text messages are the worst. Particularly in romance.

Text messages are like the one night stands of communication. They are quick, easy, and allow two people to maintain some sort of “relationship” without ever having to actually speak to one another. They require such a minimal level of effort, that even someone you would not otherwise maintain any type of communication with, can suddenly become your soul mate. It increases the quantity of contact, but diminishes the quality. As the saying goes “picture messages of baby squirrels playing in a courtyard, does not a relationship make.”

But then you have the flipside where it is undeniable that texting is easy and convenient. Everyone knows this. Therefore when you are not receiving a text from someone, you can’t help but assume they don’t care to talk to you. Text messaging not only increases expectation, but it actually creates expectation where expectations otherwise wouldn’t exist.

This is one of many miniscule problems in my life along with maintaining a weekly budget and trying to decide which side of the Q-tip I should use first. It’s not a real problem. I don’t need advice on how to handle it. I know what I need to do.

If I ever want a legitimate relationship, with a real live voice on the other end of the phone, I need to stop high-fiving my tit arm and accept the fact that feeding into the trends of modern communication never helped anyone.

Not even Roosevelt.




The girl overwhelmed with desire to hibernate

I Hate Twitter and So Should You

I hate Twitter. Whenever I hear someone mention it, it takes physical effort for me to think of something other than voluptuous female rabbits pursuing interracial relations with their male counterparts.

But semantics  aside, I still hate Twitter. It’s clumsy and irritating and encourages people to express every insignificant thought they can muster (not at ALL like this blog).  For this reason, I begrudgingly use Twitter as a blog marketing tool and not much else. I also make a strong effort to follow less people on Twitter than I do in real life as to decrease the amount of inconsequential gobbledygook I expose myself to.

But unfortunately, there’s this  “retweet” business that allows all of the degenerates I follow to share what their loser friends talk about while they sit at home collecting unemployment and playing Halo II in their mother’s basements.

I’m sorry, that was offensive…

D&D, bitches!

Eh hem…point is, my tolerable relationship with Twitter is rapidly growing more intolerable than North Carolina and I don’t know how much longer I can take it. About a month or so ago, #RTComedyBot retweeted one of my blog entries, so naturally I decided to follow him/them/it/genderless rat.

Horrible mistake. Absolutely dreadful.

Now I realize with a name like RTComedyBot, I should have anticipated the nightmare of retweets that were to come. But since I am Twittilliterate  I didn’t put it together.  Here are just a few examples of some of the people out there who think they are funny enough to hash tag lmao.

Ok, well to be fair that last one might actually be funny.

But aside from that slight possibility, this is the quality of the tweets in my tweetfeed. This may sound radical, but I think it’s about time we revoke women’s right to tweet


The girl who wants you to follow her anywhere but on Twitter (though you can do that too)

Leases and Jesse Pinkman, Bitch

Today I signed a lease for a new apartment.

This phrase may not seem important enough to stand alone as a paragraph, however in my limited world, signing a lease is much a kin to a successful surgical operation to separate conjoined twins. Accept of course, much more impressive.

psh…child’s play

Why? Well because I’m psychotic. Because I fear commitment the way most people fear cancer or American Idol result night.  I live in constant fear that if I commit to something, anything, I will have to miss out on the opportunity for something better. Howie Mandel would make me his bitch.

But it’s different with this apartment. Sure there are cigarette holes in the carpet, and the bedroom is smaller than a French prison cell, but the second my landlord-to-be told me the apartment was most recently rented to a heroin addict crack dealer, I knew it was meant to be. How? Two words.

Jesse Pinkman.

It’s not that Breaking Bad has changed my life, but rather, Breaking Bad has completed my life, and meth-addict turned heroin-addict Jesse Pinkman had a large part to do with that. It’s not just his ghetto speak and unnecessary attraction to Big and Tall clothing sizes that feed my will to live, but the sensitive interior beneath the surface of his crack-head stupor.

Sooo naturally when I heard my new digs is a former drug haven, my eyes glazed over and within hours I took the apartment. Needless to say I will need some sort of security plan. I’m thinking I’m going to pull a Home Alone, and whenever someone knocks on my door, simply play this:


The girl with the lease, bitch