pindetest.

everyone loves pinterest. i love pinning things that smell like a baby prostitute, men who are really, really, ridiculous good looking, clothes that i can't afford, and shoes. i like looking at my boards and i enjoy the false sense of popularity and general good-tastedness that i get when others like and repin my items. what i don't like, not even a little bit, is the stupid shit other people pin. like, i seriously can't stand it.

personally, i find pinterest recipes to be the most offensive. why are you pinning a "recipe" that tells you how to freeze dots of yogurt? you really don't know how to do that? do you constantly refer to the pictures on the pin to make sure you're doing it right? not a recipe, not a real thing, not something i want to look at. actually, most things food related make me want to punch someone in the face, really hard. you've reached adulthood and don't know how to make meals using the ingredients on hand? you don't know how to make a casserole? roast a vegetable? make pimento cheese? construct a tasty sandwich? you're just now finding out that avocados are good, on everything? also bacon? alright, i'm a food snob and i have a culinary degree, so i might be overreacting a bit. i am not, however, overreacting about that yogurt thing. that's stupid. point to take from this paragraph: instead of pinning specific recipes, learn common cooking techniques (roasting, baking, searing, sautéing, steaming, grilling, boiling, braising), decide what flavor combinations you enjoy and apply those to foods, and educate yourself on common substitutions and equivalencies in food (that way you won't have to run to the store every time you don't have the exact ingredients for yogurt drops).

now that i've been nice to you for a minute and given you some advice you probably don't care about, i'm going to continue my rant. outfit pins. okay, again, you are an adult, i assume, and you can't dress yourself? you're surprised that everything looks better belted? more importantly, you think that you're going to look like that super tan model with twig legs and a stegosaurus backbone when you put that shit on? you're not. why do you need to note in a pin that gold looks good with (mint (omg), navy (gasp), white (sooooo chic), black (classic), peach (so hot... last summer), purple (regal)...) everything. it's like you're pinning garanimals for adults. before pinterest was invented you tried to wear two shirts, no pants, and a necklace on your arm because there were no outfit inspirations for you to model your ensemble by? please. you're a grownup and should, therefore, be old enough to know what looks good on your body (flattering), is tasteful (appropriate), somewhat modern (stylish), and polished (mostly free of cat hair). notice i didn't include the word trendy. if you're just now learning to put on those pants instead of two shirts, you don't even need to think about the word trendy. you'll mess it up. what to take away from this paragraph: stop sucking at getting dressed. you do it everyday, you'd think you'd have enough practice to do it right.

no lead-in on this one: inspirational quotes. just stop. i'm not inspired. get a therapist or find someone who cares about your feelings (possibly a ornery cat).

also those household item repurposing/put a cookbook on a hanger/do some weird shit to a bag of chocolate chips with a cut up gatorade bottle because you're too dumb to get them out otherwise, things. it's called improvising; poor people have been doing it for centuries.

and finally, those greasy looking pictures of abs with "workout" routines attached. i don't know what any of those moves are and i'm sure as hell not doing any jumping jacks. if you really want your body to look like that you should: stop eating (like at all, ever.), drop all of your friends and social interactions (no alcohol, ever! this will be easy though, because they'll get tired of hearing about your annoying ass fitness routine and stop talking to you), and set up a tent in the gym (as this is your new home). bottom line: stop eating so much (easier said than done), do some sort of physical activity (cat lifting is good), and for the love of god, stop doing jumping jacks. you look ridiculous.

i feel so much better and like i've really enriched your lives. also, i feel like i'm no longer going to have any followers on pinterest...

unemployable.

no one will hire me. you’re not surprised, but for some reason i really am. i don’t need you to feel sorry for me, as employment is not really something i get too excited about. apparently, i don’t possess the skills necessary to make coffee or copies. i also don’t have five years of experience making copies. i also don’t happen to care. for the moment, i’ve given up on what i am referring to as “traditional employment”. i’m baking pretty shit and selling it to people. then, i’m taking the money i earn from that and buying shoes. i should probably use that money to rent an apartment. i should probably go to sleep at a “normal” time. i should probably trick someone into dating me. i should probably brush my hair. i should, but i ain’t gonna. when you’re as unemployable as i am, you have to give up on notions of normality and subsequently, stop expecting a traditional life plan to punch you in the face. i’d love to be a young professional (i certainly have the wardrobe for it), but it’s become abundantly clear to me that the regular life plan isn’t going to work for me. now, i’m just doing what i do best - tricking people into eating massive amounts of butter. and, because i know you really want to know/care, i’m okay with it. i’m certainly not starving to death or hurting for footwear. 

along with epiphanies regarding our blatantly obvious inability to find a job, princess oreo and i have picked up some new healthy (hilarious) habits. you see, sometimes realizing that you’re good for nothing makes you eat snacks. then, one day you look down and noticed that your cream-filled centers are ultra double stuffed and can no longer be described at "cuddly". that's when you decide to “do something” about it. i bought pink sporty things and oreo got a squishy pink harness that fit around her belly and we seriously thought about walking the (hilly, dog infested) neighborhood. i lounged for 3 days in workout clothes and tennies, oreo hissed at her harness before ultimately deciding it made a pretty decent pillow. we felt skinnier already. when we finally did go on that walk we were like- nothing to see here, people, just a chubby girl in head to toe neon pink walking around with a worthless cat stuffed in her shirt. yeah, oreo didn’t take too kindly to the leash. yeah, i stuffed her in my shirt and walked a mile and a half looking all pregnant and crazy and shit. yeah, oreo loved it and was purring the whole time. yeah, i saw all 15 people that live in our neighborhood. yeah, they all laughed and pointed. yeah, i've done this more than once. bonus: i also get in some weight lifting. bonus: there are no eligible bachelors in my hood. problem: i made bacon pimento cheese and walking makes me hungry (being carried makes oreo hungry). should you ever get lost on your way to somewhere better and end up in fuglasville, i’ll be the sweaty one in my third trimester hissing at dogs and eating health food (bacon). we’re living the life, whoop whoop!

check out my cookie business. there's not really THAT much butter involved. www.facebook.com/tickledpinkcookies

nkotbsb.

i, admittedly, have really absurd taste in music. i still listen to boy bands, frequently. basically, i never stopped liking boy bands. it was like, one day you’re 12 and no one cares that you’re obsessed with the backstreet boys, and then all of a sudden i’m 25 and i’m supposed to have, what, forgotten the lyrics to the songs i listened to 27,510,267 times on my walkman?! i don’t think so, hobo. 

i’d actually like to expand this statement to include most, if not all, ridiculous late 90’s pop music. when did it become unacceptable for grown men to dress in coordinating outfits while singing their hearts out (complete with emphatic arm motions and matching intense facial expressions) in spacious plane hangers? remember when mtv used to play music videos? remember trl? i watched that shit like it was my job, frantically voting for bsb on the home phone/landline. i’m really having a hard time expressing how much i truly enjoy terrible pop music because my witty commentary on the absurdity of the entire genre is getting in the way. i’m being serious. among the most played songs on my ipod are any number of britney spears songs and bbmak’s “back here” which is, arguably, the best song of all time. it very well may be that i am using cheesy pop music to replace the romance movie, for which i have zero tolerance. the notebook literally makes me sick at my stomach, but listening to pseudo-straight men singing about love in perfect harmony makes me believe. again, i’m being serious. i went to my 4th (?) backstreet boys concert last year, a tour which also featured new kids on the block, and all jokes aside, it was one of the best days of my life. true, the guys frolicking around on stage were all middled aged, dramatically less attractive than i remembered, winded, and more than slightly pathetic, but their music was the same and i knew every damn word. i wore glitter, smelled like a baby prostitute, and got hammer time on some pineapple smirnoff (consumed on marta from a mcdonalds cup with the bestie, klass), judge me. sometimes i just think it’s best to bask in a time period where christina’s genie was still in the bottle and ludacris was still relevant/not "collaborating" with justin bieber. you will never, ever, convince me that nsync’s “merry christmas, happy holidays” isn’t the best way to kick off, spend, and end the holiday season or that britney is too far gone to come out with a song to simultaneously annoy the shit out of you and make you want to dance. backstreet’s back, alright?

videos to help you get on my level (it's where you want to be):

2/3 of these british guys are cute. from what i've seen/heard, that's not a bad statistic. 

seriously, eff that dear john/notebook/pathetic girl shit, this is love. 

she's a crazy bitch, but she's the right thing to do. 

this is fabulous. although, aging gentlemen should keep their shirts on during concerts (i'm looking at you ugly wahlberg).

fort lantz.

although i’ve regaled most of you with the absurdity of my papa bear, some of his ridiculousness bears (pun intended) repeating. you should read this entire post with a drawn out, borderline redneck, southern accent. 

my father is convinced that that little pandy, wingy cole and i “negotiate our safety on a constant basis”. he insists that “safety is non-negotiable”, once banning me and my 23 year old sister from the local mall after dark, asserting that an aggressive child gang was prowling outside of the movie theater waiting to shoot 6 ft tall white girls (with nerf guns?) as they exited the building after harry potter and, that this kind of dangerous scene should be avoided all together. “nothing good happens after midnight”. “i don’t understand why you girls need to leave the house after it is dark”. announced at 7:30 pm. papa bear is also convinced that because my mother and i do not close the garage doors, deadbolt the doors, and set the alarm while at home, we are “enticing, if not inviting burglars into our home at which point i’m going to have to shoot someone and(he gets real dramatic here, arms flailing, voice screeching) THE BLOOD IS GOING TO BE ON YOUR HANDS!” after this spiel, there are tears in our eyes and we start coughing from suppressed laughter. panda pees her pants (it’s an old person thing) and i cackle like a witch. this does not please papa bear. indignantly, he chortles that we can “laugh all we want, but it ain’t gonna be funny when there’s a dead person in the foyer”. apparently, this imaginary burglar, now dead in our home’s entrance, isn’t the only person trying to break into fort lantz. being that we have the only home on the block (planet) with a summer “cool tub”, everybody wants in on the action, “especially the democrats”. now, please, please, please, before i even continue with this post do not try to get political on me. unless you want to tell me that you are joining the party party, i don’t want to hear your self-important political bullshit. “i don’t believe in the republican party or the democratic party, i just believe in parties”. 

after a weekend marathon of one of my favorite shows, the walking dead, papa bear has, in a lighthearted divergence from “the blood is going to be on your hands”, turned his attention away from the democrat invasion and instead is focusing on the zombie apocalypse, ascertaining various weapons and supplies to take down the droves of walkers and/or democrats eager to plunder the backwoods paradise which is fort lantz. when one such event does occur, i’d like to think that you’d all be welcome to our maximum security fortress, but sadly it has been made clear that only those with usable skills will be allowed on the premises. thank god i’m a “pretty decent shot for someone in a dress and a damn fine cook (both statements i choose to take as compliments)”, otherwise my presence would be deemed unnecessary and i would be forced to wander in cohorts with the mindless hoard (democrats). just kidding, i don’t care about that shit, remember? 

pretty, pretty, princess.

i really fancy myself a sleeping beauty, given my aptitude for napping, or perhaps rapunzel based on my desire for obnoxiously long hair, but find myself, in the most practical sense of the characterization, a cinderella, as i currently do chores for a “living”.

i am a disney princess. just wanted to get that out of the way as to avoid any confusion or misgivings based on the title alone. granted, you’ve probably never seen me on the big screen before as i am a vodka riddled, foul mouthed princess, but i’m totally legit. i have a lovable sidekick in the form of princess oreo, (also a princess, in case the title preceding her name didn’t stick) a bitchy little cat from the wrong side of the tracks with a snarky attitude and an affinity for bacon. please note that i use this sidekick prop as both a singing partner and an object by which to convey inner monologue verbally without looking “crazy”. talking to cats is normal and healthy. i sing to little o as well, mostly usher because they’re both black and sexy. her words, not mine. in all seriousness, i’ve always wanted to be a disney princess. i may or may not have a new life plan in the works which involves losing only enough weight to be a “real life” disney princess at disney world. i worked with a gentleman recently, a former employee for disney world resort, who told me he used to see disney princesses running down underground corridors on their way to events cussing like sailors while chain smoking cigarettes. as it should be. this propelled my desire to sing to animals into overdrive, and now all i can think about is scaring children and getting paid for it. that, and putting oreo the orca in a little mouse (tiger, fish, bird, monkey, raccoon, frog, chipmunk) costume and having her aid in the terrorizing (scratching) of small creatures. while i realize that being a 25 year old disney princess is not the most adult thing to do, i just can’t shake the desire to break out in spontaneous song for the sole purpose of annoying the shit out of everyone around me. i’m talking real klassy with a “k” princess action here, people. thoughts on the new life plan?

a perfect example of the kind of princess i'd be. that's a wig, bitch. 

swamp thing.

although this post could very well be referring to what my hair looks like when i wake up in the morning/don’t brush or wash it for days on end, it’s not about my tresses at all, but rather about an ongoing obsession and possibly infallible life plan. 

as you very well may know, i don’t meet the minimum qualifications to be a front desk clerk and was "lucky" enough to get a job as a hostess, (a position, if it can even be called that, that i had in high school) so i've to really shift gears in order to conjure up a life plan more suitable to my non-existent skill set. in the midst of my confusion i found a light at the end of an alligator shaped tunnel. i’m talking about a cajun, bayou, french language butchering, alligator wrangling, drinking, smoking, mudda frickan life altering realization in the form of the history channel’s swamp people. the show is currently in hiatus, so if you haven’t seen it, for the love of all things entertaining, get on it. now, i’m sure you’re wondering how this swamp people obsession relates to my own life as i hate the outdoors, manual labor, and people who are drunker than me (cajun). i have decided that instead of starting this “life” thing everyone is talking about, or applying for another 158 jobs online, or taking an internship, i am going to go live in the swamp, marry a landry (lauren landry really has a nice {yurman} ring to it), have shoes and handbags made of alligator, drunkenly ramble in order to fit in with the locals, and most importantly start my own spin-off show entitled “the real swamp wives of louisiana”. before you start in on me, i realize that this plan, like all my others, may have some flaws. i’m sure the shopping is abysmal, so i’m researching the availability of the interweb and ups in the pierre part area, while simultaneously calculating the cost of a private jet. also, this plan is shocking because i fear both commitment and marriage, but i assume marriages in the bayou are not legally binding and involve placing bud light pull tabs on each others’ fingers and calling it a day; that, i can deal with. 

i’d like to add that since writing this lovely little piece, i have, against all odds and rejections, gained employment. let the record reflect that despite this achievement, becoming a real swamp wife of louisiana with the beautiful/alligator loving bianca nawrocki is still my life plan. jobs are for poor people and mine makes me want to kill myself. 

gaining the trust and blank stare/toothless grin of junior and willie edwards is only the first step in my master plan.

teaching little o to attack gators/go outside will be phase two of the plan.

now will someone please buy me one of these koozies so that i will have something to keep my drink cold while i execute my dream?

kiss the cook.

clearly, from lack of hits on my blog, you people do not care about the progress of princess o learning to use the toilet. noted, and moving on. did you know that is my other life i cook things? 

you see, in my real life i drink things, make funny jokes about things, and buy exorbitant amounts of things. on the contrary, in my other life, the one most of you haven’t seen i cook things and, i don’t mean to boast (lie), but those things are fucking fabulous. there are some things that you are just good at/have a natural aptitude for/are meant to do. princess wingy cole likes to joke and say that i am prepping myself to be the perfect housewife, but presently marriage terrifies me and cleaning mystifies me (there are not cleaning fairies that de-clutter rooms and sinks? what have you done to me, panda?). it seems as though cooking (among other talents such as vodka tolerance, marathon shopping, kitty cat care, storytelling, general craftiness, and tanning) is my forte. why this particular talent has latched onto me and made the career pursuit appear dismally unprofitable, i’m not sure; tis a conundrum i lack the brain power to fully dissect and resolve to ultimately care. and just so you know, nonexistent eligible bachelors, [qualifications here] i appear much more attractive carrying a tray of delicious food than i do in real life. i’m beginning to think my best chance of meeting the man of my dreams will only happen if i perpetually wear a “kiss the cook” apron and stumble upon true love (my life is a movie?) through the process of elimination. get it while it’s hot (or not), employment sucks ass. 

city kitty.

forgive me blogspot, for i have sinned. it has been 22 days since my last blogfession. eh, you’ll get over it; oreo and i have been very busy little (or not) kittens. 

did you know that you have to have a job in order to pay for an eminent move into the city? it’s insane. also, did you know that a bachelors degree (a designer diploma, at that) coupled with a completely pointless associates degree from a prestigious technical school no longer qualify you for any job, whatsoever? it’s true. at any rate, princess o and i are ready to be adults and are looking forward to the spacious cardboard box (of the refrigerator variety, of course) that we will soon be inhabiting. in preparation for such a move, and because i obviously posses the skills to live quite comfortably in an iron jungle (budgeting skills, a complete professional wardrobe, keen street smarts, my daddy’s money and my mama’s good looks?), oreo the orca whale is having to make some adjustments in preparation for life outside of fuglasville. step number one involves me backing up my ridiculous claims with some actual results. yeah, that’s right, i am, in fact, toilet training my cat. papa bear purchased a fabulous product, aptly named citikitty for us off the interweb and operation “cat peeing in the toilet” is in full swing in the lantzalot (so punny) household. in about 25 complicated steps you too can have your mean little bundle of black and white fur tinkling in the potty instead of in the litterbox. well, guess what? oreo is a stubborn little shit and we are stuck around step 5. she has a strange new habit that involves me taking her outside on a leash and her doing her business outside instead of in her citikitty toilet contraption. that’s right folks, instead of turning my cat into a well adjusted urban feline, i’ve made her a dog. let’s face it, it could be worse; i could have made her into a hamster, and everyone knows cedar chips smell weird (although i would love to see o-ey run in one of those metal wheels, not that she’s capable of running in the first place, for serious). did i mention that i bought stupid o an adorable little pink harness and matching retractable leash? well, it did, and watching her walk with them on is the funniest thing i’ve ever seen. she hates it and walks in a manner dubbed “flat cat” by mrs. panda. all around, complete, success. 

so, let us review. oreo and i are moving out. i still have no job. princess oreo still cannot use the human potty or walk on a leash without doing something most similar to a military crawl. the life plan is in full swing people, and going quite well. 

leashed/pissed

crazy cat lady paraphernalia

orey in "nature"

proof that i will be single forever

false promises in eye catching packaging/ugly cat

[insert potty joke here]

♥ lwd.

sometimes there aren’t words that are good enough. there is no elaborate strand of prose adequately exact and no description of feeling appropriately grand or remotely accurate. whitney, you touched my life in a manner beyond words and all i know is that i love you and miss you, every day, beautiful soulmate...

vodka.

if the saying is true that aspiring authors should “write what you know”, then i’ve been bullshitting you poor people for quite some time. if i know anything at all it’s not about kittens, fashion blunders, or relationships; it’s about vodka. 

having tried absolutely (pun intended?) every type of liquor, malt beverage, wine, champagne, and every combination thereof, i can honestly attest to the fact that there is no better friend than the fermented potato. the list of grievances concerning other intoxicants is extensive: rum is too sweet, gin makes me hate christmas/myself, whiskey adds a level of vulgarity to my already rowdy self that everyone (myself included) finds unacceptable, grain alcohol is only reserved for the the everclear hot tub experiment (which has yet to transpire... mythbusters?), and tequila usually leads to projectile vomiting (ideal). this, my friends, is where vodka outshines the competition. you can mix it with anything, if you spill it on yourself it dries clear, it enhances yet doesn’t overpower my natural bitchiness, and it comes in a large variety of flavors. having stated my intentions of persuading you, the reader, that vodka is superior to all other alcohols, i will now set forth a jumbled list of things to consider before ultimately conceding to my will and admitting that vodka reins as the king all of liquor. when discussing the supremacy of russia’s “little water”, one must be mindful of price, flavor and overall wiener factor. 

although some may argue that only expensive vodka is worth drinking, i would like to remind you that i have yet to meet someone rich enough to marry, in some cases quantity is better than quality, and that all individuals, including papa bear, have a cap on weekly alcohol budgets. that being said, i will not drink any vodka that comes in a plastic bottle, unless of course i am very inebriated or very, very desperate. this is what one might call “standards”; i don’t have many, but this is a non-negotiable (much like safety). is grey goose better than svedka? yes. is kettle one superior to smirnoff? definitely. would i turn down either of the lesser quality vodkas or either of the expensive brands? do you know me at all? you see, i don’t care if you filtered my vodka through charcoal 500 times, i don’t care that some russian dude in an igloo with a furry hood said it’s the best, and i don’t care that your vodka is sponsored by p diddy/diddy/diddy dirty money. if it’s 13.99, in glass, and doesn’t taste like rubbing alcohol, i’ll drink it (love you, svedka).

transition to the flavor component. ideally, vodka should taste like nothing. in rare cases this actually happens. in most cases, put on your big girl panties, it’s alcohol, it’s going to burn. while nothing can make this girl happier than vodka + water + lime, flavored varieties certainly have their place. for example, fancy the orange creamsicle of childhood? vanilla vodka + orange soda. magic. need to add a zing to a drink which can technically count as a meal/is the thing of hangover legends? pepper vodka + bloody mary mix. cured. better yet, bacon vodka. obese. need a drink which makes you feel like a lady who lunches rather than the blatant alcoholic you really are? peach vodka + champagne + mango puree. bellini bliss. you welcome. 

which ultimately leads me to my final point, the wiener factor. you have a wiener/think you’re too big of a badass to drink vodka. vodka is for girls. you’re scared of paper umbrellas in drinks. you only drink beer. you only drink whiskey. news, freaking, flash. you have to drink a bottle of beer in order to have consumed the same as a single shot of vodka. you are wasting valuable stomach space. both vodka and whiskey, on average, are 80 proof, meaning 40% alcohol. you’re going to mix that whiskey with coca cola, i’m going to mix my vodka with water. you’re a fatty (i know, i know, i’m not one to talk. i’m only this squishy because they say you can’t trust a skinny chef, politics) and to add insult to injury, your hangover will be worse than mine because unlike my fabulously clear drink of choice yours contains tannins and acetone which make you feel like shit and significantly decreases your next day cognition. who’s the wiener now?


learn to hydrate and intoxicate simultaneously, hobos. 

if this drunk baby doesn't make you laugh, then i don't know what will. 

allergic.

i’ve recently been made painfully aware of the fact that i suffer from seasonal allergies. more specifically, i suffer from pollen being directly deposited into my nose by one oreo lantz.

you see, when a kitty cat rolls around on your pollen-laiden driveway and then insists on sleeping on your face, pollen inhalation is all but inevitable. so, after administering copious amounts of antihistamines, nasal sprays, and decongestants simultaneously i was able to conclude that there are lots of things for which i have a similar allergic reaction. and while some of the lists below cause physical reactions such as nausea and eyeball pain, many leave impressions as well as symptoms which can not be treated with either over the counter or prescription medication, such as emotional damage and permanent memory etching. very. scary. stuff. really, i hate many, many things so making a short list of allergies comes as natural as cats and barbie hair brushes. 

i am allergic to:

1. fugly footwear. including, but not limited to: kitten heels, mules, platform flip flops, plastic flip flops, bedazzled flip flops, now that i think about it, all flip flops, double stacked keds, wedges with heels under 4”, any heel under 4” (see also, kitten heel), bulbous flats, anything too cheap, too plastic, or too much like something panda would wear.
2. heinous clothing. including but not limited to: anything purchased from hollister, american eagle, or abercrombie, cargo shorts, jhorts (unless purchased with proper fit, length, and fabric containing less than 10% spandex, also known as “demin”, never okay for anyone with a wiener), tea length dresses (hello, cankles), capris, man capris, capris of any kind, all graphic tees, anything that looks like lisa frank, a rhinestone, someone who smokes meth, and a tattoo artist had a baby (see ed hardy), spaghetti strap tank tops worn as shirts (not even close, please, please stop), tube tops, ribbon belts, anything too tight, too short, or too fugly.
3. animal people. individuals who indiscriminately like all animals have deep seated issues and more likely than not problems with normal human interaction.
4. picky eaters. everyone is allowed to have their “things”. if you stick syrup, a raisin or a canned black olive in front of me, i will punch you. transversely, if the only thing you’ll eat is a chicken finger, we’re going to have a little problem. 
5. the morning time. yes, i stay up until 5 am. yes, i know that this is not “normal”. yes, i remain grumpy until noon. yes, i usually continue to be grumpy after that. no, i will not apologize. no, i don’t want a damn bagel. 
6. work. i really don’t mind words like “project” or “experiment”, but work is absolutely disgusting. manual labor is out of the question. “working out” has the word work in it, so, no. 
7. higher education. i don’t like it. i feel significantly dumber now than i did when i started college. 
8. love/marriage/relationships. i get it. sometimes you people love each other and want to hold hands, kiss each other in public, share your bank accounts and be lifetime roommates, or whatever. that’s great. you scare me. no thank you. 

i supposed you are expecting some kind of conclusion to this rant. i’m allergic to many things. chances are i’m even a little allergic to you. fear not, for there is an easy solution which will attract rather than detract my much sought after affection, luring me to you like a bee to honey: carry around a bottle of vodka.

on a final and, you guessed it, unrelated note, i'd like to thank miranda lambert for writing a song about me. that was kind. 

cosmic counseling.

i remember a time (yesterday) when every major life decision was made using one of the following methods: magic 8 ball, horoscopes, ipod dipping, mash, chinese fortune tellers, or bible dipping. if i can’t shake, click, shuffle, spell, count or point my way to a solution, then damnit, there isn’t a solution to be had.

go ahead, trust in your “everything happens for a reason” philosophy. as far as i’m concerned everything happens because i trust the shuffle on my ipod to pick a song worthy of interpreting my ever so important and life changing queries. do you need to know whether or not you should go to the bar on a monday? shake a magic 8 ball. when the ball tells you, “ask again later”, drink a bottle of wine and give it another try. do you need to know when the next dramatic mood swing (due to the graviational pull/alignment of pluto, the dwarf planet) will send your friends running in the opposite direction? you better get your crabby (astrological sign joke?) ass to the nearest horoscope app/use the interweb and pick up on your planetary vibes. need to figure out who you’ll marry, where you’ll live, what your salary, occupation and child count will be? duh, mash that shit. do you have only mere days left until formal and have yet to choose a date? get to folding, numbering, color coding and candidate selecting, it’s time for a chinese fortune teller (true story). need general, hardly accurate and always out of context advice from the jesus? dust off the bible your grandma gave you, ask a broad and generally open-ended question, start ruffling the pages, jab your finger onto a random page and start reading. now you have, by word of divine authority, the answer to all your problems. i think sometimes, in an attempt to be “grown-ups” we decide to make things more complicated than they should be. we discuss at length the nature of, variables of, and solutions to our various problems, questions and concerns, rarely considering the fact that despite our best and lengthiest analysis, most things either fall apart or fall into place. 

when you really think about it, you probably already know whether or not you’re going out on a monday, when you’re grumpy, and who you will definitely not be marrying. why not let yourself be surprised with some vague cosmic readings which coincide perfectly with your current mood and/or situation, live in a shack with brad pitt (hey, i’d take it), or have the theme song to your life be drake’s “fancy”? feel free to discuss your feelings, but don’t be upset when i only answer yes or no questions with phrases such as, “it is decidedly so” and "as i see it, no".

magic 8 ball application. seer of all things, and the direct answer to the question: "will i ever graduate from college?"

finally, and on a completely unrelated note, oreo and i are loving our friend britney's new music video, although we are pretty sure brit brit stole/took inspiration from the first line from little princess o 
♫ this kitten got your tong tied in knots i see ♫

designer diploma.

i’m going out on a limb here and putting your high school english composition and/or elementary writing skills to the test with something i am calling a simile/analogy combo. 

a diploma from mercer is like a pair of designer shoes. 

ok, maybe designer shoes is a bit of a stretch, but mercer is at least similar to a pair of overpriced marginally well-known brand name shoes in a pricey boutique. you see, a mercer diploma, similar to the friends hanging out in my closet, and on my floor, in my car, and in my purse, is all about the label. sure, mercer is no yale or harvard; it’s not a vanderbilt, hell, it’s not even an emory, but the fact remains that what mercer lacks in credentials, football players, and enrollment statistics it makes up for in that sneaky little designer price tag. and, just like those crafty boutiques, high end department stores and online shops, mercer offers their own personal brand of coupons and free shipping cunningly masked as these things they call scholarships. you honestly don’t even have to be that smart (personal experience) and this school will literally throw money at you. so, you’ve given into the scam, combined several coupons and decide to make mercer your home for the next four (five if you’re lucky, six if you’re ridiculous, and seven if you’re me) years. what do you expect to get out of this? if mercer is anything like a pair of overpriced designer shoes, which duh i’ve said like ten times i think it is, you can expect plenty of pain, regret, general discomfort, recognition of poor decision making skills, barefootedness, falling, and possible bodily harm. the pain comes when you realize you’re expected to go to class while hungover to listen to some loser pontificate over matters of “epic importance” (no thank you, if you want to learn something take dr. macke). the regret surfaces when you find out that even after your 21st birthday you can’t legally drink in your (on campus) place of residence and that your body can and will be considered a “container” and while intoxicated is not allowed on campus either. the general discomfort occurs when you see the ragamuffins which are now your “classmates”. the recognition of poor decision making skills comes after the aforementioned realizations and at the point which you understand that you will spend the next ten years of your life paying off your college loans/receive angry scowls from papa bear concerning how much of his hard earned money went to your damn designer degree. the barefootedness, falling, and bodily injury are more personal interjections which reflect the level of intoxication necessary to deal with the above list of general complaints. and hey, guess what? most hobos wouldn't know a manolo from a steve madden if you hit them in the face with it. 

there is hope in all this, kiddos. for those discerning enough to know the difference there is a huge distinction between your cute jessica simpson platforms (georgia state) and a pair of ($1200) christian louboutins (mercer). let’s just hope that your potential employer didn’t get their pumps at tj maxx and that you know how to rock the shit out of that designer diploma. 

did i take it too far with the shoe analogy?

i'm gonna betch slap you shetbag!