IT’S LIKE YOU JUST KNOW WHAT I NEED, GROUPON
There are just so many reasons why I need this. Some of them relate to a very positive push towards dental hygiene but most of them relate to having Justin Bieber in my mouth every day.
Have I mentioned it’s almost my birthday, you guys?
S.
Since Jillian Michaels ruined my life last year I’ve decided to set myself up for success in 2012 by actually taking the time to make resolutions that have more depth to them than: “Get less fat.” Because I’m not fat. And I’m at the point now where taking better care of my body isn’t something I should set as a repetitive New Year’s Resolution, I should just be fucking doing it. I should be making it an actual part of my lifestyle and ingraining it into every element of my behaviour and that’s a slow and steady process, not a simple change that I can wake up on the first day of a new year and suddenly adhere to perfectly. Basically what I’m saying is that my first meal of 2012 was a cheeseburger and poutine.
Here are my resolutions for 2012 (I’m chanting “If you blog it, then it’s real” in my head right now, by the way):
And that’s it, because those are four pretty big things and I really don’t think I’ll have time for much else. Realism. That’s what 2012 is all about. Oh, and maybe I’ll meet a really cute and nice boy who won’t be scared away by my penchant for emotional nonsense, my need for constant verbal affirmations of love, or my tiny hands.
What are YOUR resolutions?
S.
Nothing better than routinely celebrating a major holiday of a religious denomination neither you or your family have ever subscribed to, AM I RIGHT?!
Being back home for the holidays is always a little surreal. And by “always” I mean the two years that I’ve done it so basically, drink up from my deep well of experience. It’s strange to feel out of place in a place that was really the only place you knew for your entire life. PLACES. AND FEELINGS. AND FEELINGS ABOUT PLACES. And so on. My hometown feels like someone I used to be really close with but haven’t seen in a while; we pick up where we left off for the most part, but there are more awkward silences than there used to be. There is a gap between us that we both know is only getting bigger so we compensate with empty promises to “totally hang out more often.”
I’ve learned how important it is to stop comparing my own life’s narrative to that of my peers. But it’s not easy. Without exception, every one of my girl friends are now living with a significant other. One of them even reproduced. Like…a tiny human came out of her vagina, you guys. I met it in real life. It squirmed a lot and then it shit itself, but it was really cute. Anyways. The beautiful realization that I’ve come to is that I am not in some state of stunted emotional growth. I am not falling behind in some proverbial rat race. I choose not to chain myself to these expectations or deadlines or throw myself into situations simply because I feel obligated to fulfill these roles that I may not be ready to fill yet. I am the third wheel. I am a wheel of brie for dinner. I am whatever, whenever, with whoever. And that’s okay.
So my Christmas present to you is a challenge. Think about an area of your life where you feel like you’re not living up to other people’s standards or schedule and then UM YEAH, HI – STOP IT.
Also, I got you this picture of Snoop Dogg in a Christmas sweater smoking a blunt:
Happy Festivus,
S.
I mentioned this briefly to you in my last post…but I made a terrible mistake, you guys.
I Googled “baby goat.”
My entire day ended. My productivity came to a screeching halt. My eyes watered. My heart burst. And now, what started out as a harmless Internet search has spiraled into a full blown obsession.
I’ll let this multimedia collection speak for itself:
OMG JUST BEING A GOAT
WHAT'S IN THE WATER? OH JUST MY ADORABLE REFLECTION, LOLZ
And then if just the simple sight of these God-sent creatures aren’t enough to make you want to punch your own face… WATCH HOW THEY MOVE:
I don’t even think this one is real. I think it’s a Japanese invention, designed to make you physically sick with cuteness:
Reasons why I need a baby goat:
I understand that baby goats are like any other adorable baby creature (including humans); inevitably it will turn into an adult and get way less cute but equally as needy… but I also Googled “adult pygmy goat” and they’re not too bad. I would just donate it to a petting zoo or give it to a traveling caravan of gypsies. (I’ve also been Googling gypsies a lot lately.)
I promise this is the worst post you will ever read on this blog. It’s only up from here, folks.
S.
I KNOW, I TOTALLY MISS YOU TOO AND I’M SORRY
I DON’T HAVE THE TIME TO WRITE YOU A PROPER POST RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I’M TOO BUSY GOOGLING BABY GOATS (I’LL FILL YOU IN LATER) SO FOR NOW… I’M JUST GOING TO LEAVE THIS HERE BECAUSE IT’S REALLY IMPORTANT:
Yashar Ali: A Message to Women From a Man: You Are Not “Crazy”
Love you all…you crazy bitches.
S.
K. was recently celebrating her 2-year anniversary with her boyfriend who she just moved in with, while I spent the evening at home dyeing my hair with some shit I found on sale for $3.99 at the drug store. BIG THINGS POPPIN.
But the fumes it got me thinking and I realized that the only way to tell if you are truly happy being single is if you are truly happy for those who aren’t. That’s when you know you’re in the right place. If you can look at a couple, see their connection and feel their happiness. When you can appreciate the beauty in two people finding each other – even when you’re not one of those people.
But being single can also suck shit. So while those women are off finding strange hairs in the shower, gaining “I got comfortable” weight and arguing about literally fucking nothing – here’s a handy checklist of things only YOU can do, you single little minx. Use this on those cold nights when you crawl into bed with nothing but a block of cheese and your own self-doubt and remember the majestic glory that comes along with being a single woman.
The PGPT Checklist For Single Ladies
What have I missed?
S.
There are times when, for a self-proclaimed communicator and lover of the written word, I say literally the worst combination of words that could ever be chosen. Like when someone tells me something – something that is potentially a very big deal – and I feel so many complex emotions at all once it’s like they cancel each other out so I reply with:
Cool stuff, man.
Because that happened. And I can’t take it back. It happened, and it’s out there.
There are times when I am consumed with the universal truth that everyone has nicer clothes than me. Like everyone in the world is just one big, well-thought-out outfit. Is it possible for fabric to laugh at you? Because secretly, during these times, I think it does.
There are times when I am amazed at the quality of human beings around me. Even strangers.
There are times when I wish serious, legitimate, real life, physical harm on people who storm onto an elevator before I’ve gotten off.
There are times when I want to be everybody’s hero. But then I’m all like yo dawg (I call myself “dawg” in my head, see)…chill out. Just because you tend to shove all your feelings deep down into a hidden volcano doesn’t mean you have to carry the burden of other people’s broken emotions on your shoulders. But I do, you guys. That’s how I connect with people I love. I’m like a parasite, except with way less horrific side effects. You know, without the parts that are physically harmful. I won’t make you poop out your life, is what I’m saying. But I will, however, annoyingly worm my way into your heart and intimate personal problems until one of three things happens:
Obviously one (or more) of those thing happens far more often than the other. And by “far more often” I mean basically always.
There are times when I feel like I am mediocre at a wide number of activities and silently curse those who are extraordinary at one. Those are the people who define culture, shape history, get all the babes. But there are other times when I feel like maybe this a good thing. Maybe it’s actually the people who are “okay” or “just-above-okay” at a multitude of things that make the world go round. Maybe it’s Jack of All Trades who is truly holding this world together and not Jack of The Best Jenga Player in The World or Jack of The Most Precise Turkey Carving Abilities. Although I would definitely invite both of those Jacks to a party.
AND….there are times when I write utterly pointless blog posts like this one. But that’s what blogs are for, right? Being devoid of points but hoping that someone out there connects to it and feels a little less….pointless.
Cool stuff, man.
S.
What in the actual fuck.
I spent an hour today (at least) watching every single one of these videos, emailing them to everyone I could think of and then discussing at length the following points (I had a really productive day):
0:00 – 0:18 – This bitch can’t even speak properly. We’re not even 20 seconds into this video and she stumbles at least three times. Why not start again? You’ve only gone 18 seconds into filming, it’s not like you stumbled at the 2-minute mark. Just calm down and take your time, Wendi. We’ll get through this.
0:21 – Punk, naturally, is “anything that normal people wouldn’t do” and this includes wearing bright colours. No really, you guys. NO BRIGHT COLOURS. Look how serious she is when she says that:
NO. BRIGHT. COLOURS.
0:24 – “You’re not going to do plaids, unless you take it a little edgy, take it to the edgy level.” THIS IS NOT EVEN A SENTENCE, WENDI. USE YOUR WORDS.
0:35 – “Most punks…they don’t wanna look like they have a lot of money.” Ah, naturally. Because that’s where the whole idea of “punk” came from – yuppies wanting to look like they don’t have a lot of money, not from a musical genre rooted in the ideologies of personal freedom and anarchism, responsible for spreading an anti-establishment movement that changed not only the music industry but the WORLD. How silly of us.
1:39-1:45 – I’m honestly not joking you guys, I’m pretty sure she had a small stroke right here. Even the model senses something isn’t right. She doesn’t even know what to do with her hands, she’s so concerned. HELP IS ON THE WAY, WENDI. Wendi with an “i” – so punkish. You rebel.
I’m also concerned about the model in general. I think she’s being held against her will. I think she’s been drugged. She has a vacant expression and blinks at an alarmingly slow speed.
I just don't even care, you guys.
I especially love how the whole thing wraps up with an important life lesson that we can all learn from punks. Just don’t even care. Wendi clearly doesn’t give a SHIT. She probably killed that animal around her neck with her bare, manicured hands right before the camera started rolling. My new motto in life is WWWD – What Would Wendi Do. We’ll start selling the bracelets soon. (They’ll be leather AND lace. So edgy.)
S.
There is no hyperbole here, people. This is gospel. Part 1 is here. (Note that it was written in January of 2009 and yep – STILL INDISPUTABLE, BRO.)
Telling people in great detail about the “crazy” dream you had last night is a form of torture and you don’t want to be a torturer, do you? Unless I was in your dream doing something awesome, or you’re one of the two people closest to me on this planet, or your dream was fucking hilarious, I would rather hear about how gassy you were whilst giving an important presentation to the boss over the irrelevant and nonsensical actions of your subconscious.
It’s difficult to rock white sunglasses without looking like a total asshole. The problem is that the white plastic rim is such a direct contrast to the black lenses that it looks like your face is screaming I’M WEARING SUNGLASSES. Which, clearly, is not the point of sunglasses.
Googling this made me hate myself.
Being alone feels really awesome. You should do it more often.
Putting grated cheese on popcorn has made me a better human being.
Joseph Gordon-Levitt is such a BABE. I’ve had a crush on him since 3rd Rock from the Sun (who didn’t) but as he gets older he continues to not only get hotter, but also more awesome. Well played, JGL.
I'm so sexy and good at stuff.
Real books are better than a Kindle. Forever and always.
Joffrey Baratheon is such a little piece of shit. I’m still so mad about that, you guys. Like…WTF was he trying to prove? Guess what Joffrey, you’re an incest baby. How does that feel, huh?! Who lets a frigging 12 year old be a king and make king decisions anyways? NED WAS AN HONEST AND NOBLE MAN.
Great. Now I’m too upset to even finish this blog post. I BID YOU ADIEU.
S.
These are search terms that drove people to this blog today:
A Few Notes to Those in Search:
Again, we’re sorry that you were looking for answers to these crucial life questions and all you stumbled upon was some blog written by two chicks from Canada. To make up for it, here’s a picture of Michael Jackson drinking vodka with midgets.
xo
S. of Pretty Girls Poop Too
