August 2011
27 posts
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I Love My Premature Balding
Because I’ve hooked up with enough thirty-year old men to know that hair makes you hella young, I’ve applied Rogaine since the day I lost one strand of hair [1]. I’m from the Miami area, so I’m obviously A LITTLE youth obsessed. And anyways, why would I want to bald? Don’t tell Williamsburg, but 1995 is over and that includes the Billy Corgan scalp and Ceaser cut. Rogaine is the...
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Madonna's FIRST Performance →
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Definition of a BAMF →
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Strange Inspirations
Here are some books, shows, and people unintentionally leaking through my writing:
1.) VH1 I Love the ___ Shows
2.) Blogs
3.) Livejournal
4.) Text Messages
5.) Reality Television
6.) Henry James
7.) Andrew Holleran
8.) Edith Wharton
9.) Truman Capote
10.) Walt Disney
11.) Girls’s Album
12.) Hole’s Live Through This
13.) Camus. (I fucking hate Camus. How did he end up...
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A Rant
I’ve had people visiting for the last two weeks. I love my friends and family, but it’s interrupting my entire routine! I’m so behind on my reading.
I need to chill. I never chill. I probably shouldn’t post this.
Does this count as over sharing? Probably! Oh, well; isn’t this, like, the age of over sharing? I feel like Angela Chase would call this era that. I also...
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Philosopher's Playground: Picture this: →
jessijuliedot:
You are the theatre kid. You haven’t played a sport since you were 13 and you weren’t very good at it in the first place. Then add a few years of hanging out with artsy types and put this individual in a dining hall. Keep in mind this character is female.
Then all of the sudden, she finds out…
That sounds awful, but I’m glad you shared this for some reason.
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“Why God? Why do I only feel you when I’m alone?”
– Margaret (Judy Blume)
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Things I'm Grateful For
Obsessive compulsive, I love making lists. Playlists. Grocery lists. To do lists. Lists of favorite movies. Lists of books to read. List of people to call. Lists, lists, lists. They make me happy; they calm me down. The last week has brought me some shit—money shit, family shit, girls crying on my floor about how they’re in love with gay men shit—but I have a lot to smile about:
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“Mr. Twit was a twit. He was born a twit. And, now at the age of sixty, he was a...”
– The Twits by Roald Dahl (via effyeahyoungadultlit)
