Tag Archives: Rants

Things That Keep Me Up At Night

23 Jul
  • Do people still own waterbeds?
  • Did I put my mozzarella ball back in the fridge?
  • I should teach myself HTML.
  • Who was the first chick to ever get a pap? Imagine being that chick. JUST IMAGINE.
  • What kind of person would I be if the Internet was never invented? More well-read? Less funny? FUNNIER?! Longer attention span? Sheltered? Would I have a better memory? Flawless cursive?
  • Fuck, tampons are really expensive. Dudes don’t get that. They just don’t get it.
  • What did Beyonce and Jay-Z do on their first date?
  • I’m 80% sure I didn’t put that mozzarella back.
  • What’s the backstory behind applause?
  • Should I get bangs? It’s probably too humid for bangs. But I see girls with bangs. How do they do it?
  • Why do people tweet pictures of their brunch so fucking much? WOOOO. EGGS. AWESOME.
  • I should tweet that.
  • Kevin Hart’s standup comedy.
  • GOD DAMMIT IT IS HOT AS A BITCH

Yours in sweaty insomnia,
S.

Things I Forgot I Hated About Dating

18 Apr
  • Having to shave your legs with alarming regularity.
  • Those first few dates when you’re getting to know each other and shit and you end up telling the same stories that you’ve told over and over again, which make you start to think Wait, these stories are exactly why I’m single aren’t they?  Quick – exaggerate. Or just leave out details.  Or better yet – stop talking. And then I just choke on my wine and/or knock something over.
  • The way dating reignites your uncontrollable, all-consuming HATRED for your entire wardrobe.
  • Texting. Because it’s either: Why hasn’t this guy texted me yet? What did he mean by that? Why did it take him 4.5 hours to write back a one word answer? THIS GUY IS NOT TEXTING ME ENOUGH. Or it’s just Holy fuck, WHY WON’T THIS GUY STOP TEXTING ME.
  • Dating is expensive, yo! When you’re not the type of chick who lets the man pick up the bill on every date (if any at all), this shit adds up. I need to start suggesting we do inexpensive activities rather than ‘going out for drinks’ such as: drinking booze in alleys, going for a nice evening stroll (to the liquor store), playing Scrabble at my house (with wine) or the least expensive out of them all — making out.
  • Assholes. Like the kind of asshole who meets you for drinks and assumes that he’s going to be coming up to your place afterward, so he gets wasted even though he has to drive all the way home (to his parents house, by the way). Have fun waiting in the parking lot sobering up in your car, ASSHOLE.
  • Still having to worry about whether or not you’re giving it up too fast, too early or too drunkenly. It’s 2011 and we are women. If you feel like getting tipsy and letting a man grope you inappropriately on the first date – you go ahead and let that man cop a feel. But not even kissing for the first few dates feels really nice sometimes too. As long as you feel comfortable with him and he deserves it, don’t let some bullshit game of numbers dictate what you do.
  • But really though, I’ve only been on like… two dates.

S.

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING IN THE WORLD

23 Jan

Let us count all the things that are fucked up about this:

  • This little twat was born in 1997. NINETEEN NINETY SEVEN. Take a second to remember what you were doing in 1997. Yeah. He was an infant.
  • His “love interest” looks at least two years older than him. Probably because if they had casted a girl who looked as young as he does WE WOULD ALL BE IN JAIL FOR WATCHING THIS.
  • Flo-Rida what the fuck are you doing on this track? For real. Yeah, let’s put the biggest meathead ignorant rapper we can find on a song with this petite blonde Australian child. Don’t even get me started about the verse itself. You talentless rapping asshole.
  • Obviously he’s being rampantly compared to the Biebs. You know what would maybe help? Not having totally the same haircut. Just a thought. SIDENOTE: Do y’all know how much the Biebs pays per bowl-cut? It’s actually disgusting.

The most fucked up part about this whole thing is that I actually answered a question from someone at work the other day by saying: “iYiYiYiY”

I hate myself.

S.

A Rant For The Broads

18 Nov

I wish I could laugh in the face of any woman who had insecurities about her relationship prior to Facebook and Blackberries. Because really…what the fuck did you have to worry about? Your man accidentally dialing the wrong number on your rotary phone and then magically falling in love with the woman on the other end? When he left the house, that was it. Sure he could have been doing whatever with whoever but how would you know? Your hairdresser’s sister who moonlighted at the local dinner theatre had to see them rushing out the back door trying to hide their faces and then bring it up the next time all three of you happened to be having a book club meeting. Try literally having a NEWS FEED that details every interaction he has with a living vagina right there in front of you. Or logging on only to discover that he hasn’t logged OUT, giving you full access to hidden photo albums and private inbox conversations, even though you’re the crazy one for snooping in the first place (right??). Ever sent a message on BBM and seen that little ‘R’ just staring back at you, unanswered BUT READ, for what seems like eight hours but is really only forty minutes? Didn’t think so, bitch.

Truth is – you are crazy.

Crazy as shit.

We all are.

The same beautiful spectrum of intricate emotions that make us the nurturing, compassionate and intuitive givers of life plays a secondary role, also making us unstable and irrational time bombs. Yeah….thanks, God.

Men will never understand what this feels like. They will never be able to fathom the savage and ruthless coup that your hormones stage on your common sense and confidence at least once every 28 days. Men do not have the capability to understand this because they don’t ever have to experience it. So don’t let them call you crazy and make you feel bad.

Let me do that.

You’re fucking crazy.

But as we just established – WE ALL ARE. We have biology (among other things…sexism, mass media…I’m looking at you, but that is another post) to thank for this. But you’re not off the hook, bitch. Because you’re an adult now and adults are supposed to have a better understanding of themselves than what you demonstrate by letting these thoughts get the best of you. What I’m saying is…if you take the time, slow down, breathe, and make a conscious note that this insecure, self-loathing, wildly creative yet terribly unhealthy broad that has hijacked your brain is not actually you – I promise, you will feel more powerful than you ever have in your life. Because your emotions are not you. Your actions are.

Your imagination is no substitute for reality. All truth comes to light.

So log out of Facebook.
Put your Blackberry away.
Start a blog and write until your mind has caught up with the rest of your train-wreck self.
And chill. the. fuck. out.

S.

WE GET IT.

2 Nov

We get it, Willow Smith, you are the spawn of two retardedly good looking, talented and famous people which not only makes you rich it makes you genetically predisposed to be infinitely cooler at 9 years old that I ever will be in my whole fucking life. WE GET IT.

We get it, cute guy on the subway. You’re cute. You and your adorable loafers, scarf and jacket, which make me assume you’re either a witty copywriter at a hip ad agency like some modern day Don Draper minus the penchant for misogyny or you’re a documentary filmmaker on your way to a brainstorming session with other cute boys in loafers – EITHER way – you had eye sex with me. Don’t think I didn’t notice. For five subway stops we made love with our retinas and then you suddenly get off at the next stop and walk away like nothing happened? Do you think because you’re cute, you can get away with this? Because WE GET IT. You’re alarmingly cute.

We get it, everyone from high school on Facebook. You’re getting married. Congrats on finding a reasonably priced photographer to take horribly cheesy and awkward engagement photos that involve turtlenecks and a forced intimacy that will be the epitome of your 8-9 year marriage. And thanks for choosing the picture of you two tenderly kissing and grasping hands in a way that conveniently shows off your underwhelming engagement ring as your profile picture. You’ve found someone that wants to sleep with you for a sustained period of time and put up with your bullshit and debilitating insecurity, WE GET IT.

We're not pointing at the stars. Because it's daylight. WE'RE POINTING TO OUR FUTURE.

We get it, skinny bitch. You’re skinny, so you can wear leggings as pants and almost get away with it because you don’t need to find a tunic that is long enough to cover your rotund and omnipresent ass. Then you can go get poutine for lunch and giggle while melted cheese hangs from your lower lip and still manage to somehow look pretty in the process. You know how badly I want poutine for lunch? DO YOU EVEN KNOW. HOW BADLY. I WANT. But for some reason the Gods blessed you with the metabolism of teenage boy, so you can eat poutine for lunch to your heart’s content because you’re just always skinny. WE GET IT.

Got it?

S.

Things that men are not allowed to complain about.

5 Aug

1) Not being able to gain weight.

It’s one thing to bitch and whine with your gym buddies about how you just can’t gain those last 15lbs of muscle and how your new protein shakes are making you have to poop. But when a woman says: “I want to lose 10lbs” it is never – I repeat NEVER – okay to retort with: “Aw man, I wish I could gain 10lbs in a few weeks….you’re lucky.”

EVER.

2) Having a stomach ache.

Oh poor baby. Your tummy hurts? Well no shit. Your last six meals consisted of nothing but various forms of steak. Maybe you should try eating a fucking vegetable every once in a while. You know what really hurts? CRAMPS. Holler at me when you have a hernia.

3) Their feet hurting.

Until you spend 6 hours awkwardly trying to balance yourself/walk/god forbid DANCE in these:

Your feet will never truly hurt. So loosen up the laces on your Nikes, or stop wearing thong sandals because guys don’t look good in thong sandals, or suck it up for one night out in actual dress shoes that may be a wee bit more constricting than your usual ratty sneakers and STFU.

(PS – I really like these, actually.)

4) Having a bad hair day.

Seriously? YOU HAVE A BUZZ CUT.

I have to deal with this:

At least it smells nice.

And that’s my real hair. God forbid I were to get extensions or a weave. You think you’re having a bad hair day because you ran out of AXE hair gel? SOME WOMEN (Britney Spears) ARE FARMING ALIEN BABIES IN THEIR HAIR:

AHHHHHHHHHH

Really though, I’m just ranting for the sake of blog material. I love you boys.

But suck it up.

S.

Louisiana: Where opinions = laws.

18 Jun

A bill has been finalized in Louisiana that requires women seeking abortions to get ultrasounds (even ones who have been a victim of rape or incest), in what Jezebel is (rightly) calling “a sneaky move by pro-lifers to influence women out of guilt to change their minds about a perfectly legal decision.”

Currently eight states require that abortion providers offer ultrasound information but three of them have mandated that the ultrasound is carried out, and require the provider to offer the woman the opportunity to view the image.

Now this Louisiana State Senator broad, Sharon Broome, is talking about it being an “empowering” bill for women. Broome, mind you, originally wanted the bill to require medical providers to discuss the fetus’s development in detail and give the woman a photograph.

So what happens after these guilt trips have worked and these women bring their baby to full term? Well…that’s kind of where this whole “empowerment” thing stops:

Of course, they haven’t introduced any legislation to promote comprehensive sex education, nor backed expanded contraceptive funding for poor women, nor gone to town for expanded child care credits and subsidies to help the women who choose to have children but need to work. Once you get that baby birthed, sister, you’re on your own — just as God intended you to be when He punished you with the pregnancy in the first place. (Fundamentalists trying to guilt women out of abortions – Jezebel)

S.

Unconvential Things I Hate About Winter

14 Dec

Right now it’s -24 degrees. There’s a lot to hate about that. The pandemonium that it causes on the roads, the way it makes my face hurt when I’m only outside for 2 minutes letting my dog pee, the disgusting sinus colds it infects the general population with….etc. Pretty typical stuff. But there’s a few other things that I desperately hate about winter:

  • I hate the fact that you can see people’s breath. Especially when I’m walking behind them and have no choice but to walk right through it. As far as I’m concerned, we could have just made out. I just inhaled your essence. I could see it! And yes, I’m fully aware that even when you can’t see people’s breath you’re still walking through it.
  • There is no winter jacket that can keep you warm in -30 and still make you look cute. The only way to truly stay warm is to dress like you’re an obese homeless man.
  • It’s dark by 4:30pm. That’s a pretty typical thing to hate about winter but I hate it because it gives me about 5 extra hours to trip over things.
  • Chucks are not Arctic-appropriate footwear.
  • Why won’t winter just let my skin be great?

But seriously. Fuck winter.

The good news is that it’s supposed to be +3 degrees here on Wednesday, so be prepared to see me dancing down the street like this.

It's Emmitt, Bitches!

S.

A Breakdown of Office Communication

25 Aug
  • “Any plans for the weekend?”

My real plans: Binge drinking on Saturday night until I’m 98% sure I can fly (or at least dance really, really well) and begin recklessly drunk texting my family and friends about this new discovery, then waking up on Sunday morning and trying to strike a deal with the Lord (or the Devil, whoever will bite) that I will never, ever drink again if he cures me of this debilitating hangover.

What I actually say: “Not much. You?”

  • “Ughh Monday morning, hey? How brutal!”

What I think: Mondays happen every fucking week. Get over it.

What I actually say: “Yep. Coffee time!”

  • “Wow, I really love your outfit!”

Their response: “Thanks! I got the shoes on sale at this tiny little place downtown, they were the only pair left and they happened to be in my size! So I was like omg, right? How can I NOT get them? And then the shirt is from Winners, have you been there lately? You should really go. Except you need patience, so like, go on a day where you really feel like shopping..”

Why I actually say it: I really don’t have anything in common with you, so this is the only thing I can think of to say.

S.

Mr. Not Me

12 Jul

So…I’m pretty sure we ALL know a Mr. (or Mrs.) Me Too. You know, the person who co-signs anything or claims to have whatever you have. Got a headache? Theirs is worse. Tell them you’re thinking about buying some Feiyue sneakers from France? They coincidentally have a pair on the next time you see them. Just getting into J. Cole? Them too! (But they knew about him before you did.)

I’ve realized that there’s something I dislike even more than a Mr. Me Too and I have dubbed this social piranha Mr. Not Me.

Mr. Not Me is that dude (or chick, this ain’t gender specific, I’m just too lazy to type “Mr. or Mrs.” every time) who will disagree with popular opinion no matter what. Anything that gets popular, they criticize relentlessly. Any public opinion that is generally held by the majority, they disagree with. They can’t even rationally tell you why they disagree, they just. do.

Mr. Not Me is full of wacky contradictions. He thinks Twitter is “totally retarded” but uses Facebook to bitch about how the people who use it are attention whores with no life. He vehemently comments on the sad state of music these days, yet he’ll eagerly pay a $30 cover charge to be seen at some hipster show featuring nothing but two assholes with harmonicas. Mr. Not Me is silent throughout the entire regular season, yet pops back into the picture come playoffs only so he can bitch and moan about the bandwagon fans.

Nothing bothered Mr. Not Me more than Michael Jackson dying, and people caring about it. Mr. Not Me was nothing short of apalled at the world’s reaction and felt he had the moral obligation to take everyone down an emotional notch. After all, how could we possibly be “sad” about this? Sure, his music was great but it’s not like we knew the guy personally. Where were all these Michael Jackson fans LAST week, hmm? We all made fun of him and thought he was a freak. He touched little boys, after all.

Well here’s the thing, Mr. Not Me. We may not have known him personally, but he was an integral part of our person. And where were we last week? In dance class, like we have been for the past 5-10 years because growing up, all we wanted in life was to be able to make people see a beat like Michael Jackson could. We were right here last week, asshole. We just weren’t dedicating our Facebook and Twitter statuses to him because he was ALIVE! There wasn’t shit to talk about, until his concerts in London happened and we had new footage to watch religiously. So forgive us for not constantly touting our adoration for him every day and, instead, only becoming visible after his unexpected and sudden death.

If you’re reading this and wondering if you’re a Mr. Not Me – or better yet – wondering if I wrote this about you specifically…you probably are, and I probably did. So hop off your status-soapbox, because at this point in time I’d rather hear about what your broke ass managed to scrounge up for dinner than your pseudo-journalistic commentary on the state of the world.

And YES, before any of you simple bitches bring it up…I do fully realize the irony of me not only complaining about this character, but using my blog as an egotistical platform from which to spout it. Hop off.

S.

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