Vegan Sarah Brown Tit Cookies -
Only four of those five words are ever used to describe me.
(Thanks to Nicole for bringing this issue to my attention.)
I have a theory that whoever has the job of writing the crap on the cups at Chipotle goes home every night, puts a gun in their mouth, sobs hysterically for ten minutes, takes it out and then watches and votes on American Idol before going to bed.
If your pants rip on a hook on a miserable rainy day, tearing a quickly growing semi-circle in the upper inner thigh that flaps to match the already-flapping soaked material from the knee down, and you think, hey, there’s Astor Place KMart, I’ll just run in there and buy a cheap pair to last me through the day, but then all the pants in Astor Place KMart are bedazzled denim capris, and it’s so hot inside Astor Place KMart dressing room that you sweat through your shirt, and when you finally choose the worst $9 pair of pants that have ever touched your skin, you ask if you can just wear them out, but no, you can’t, the Astor Place KMart doesn’t work that way, you have to go upstairs to the bathroom to change after you buy them, but first you must find an employee to unlock the bathroom, and the bathroom is next to all the little girl pajamas, and there’s a giant man there, no child with him, just picking through the little girl pajamas, and when you finally get inside the bathroom there’s a woman in there hurling her brains out, and you have to strip down to your wet socks and sweaty shirt and take off your old ripped pants and change into your horrible hot scratchy new lady janitor pants, and then the opening in the ladies room garbage can is not wide enough to accept wadded up pants, it’s a little-known fact that at that moment, if you wanted to set something on fire, you are totally allowed by law to do so.
You can pre-order “Feminist Ryan Gosling: The Book” for under $8 USD right now.
Basically, for the cost of two fancypants coffees, you can own over 100 pictures of Ryan Gosling’s face (and a bunch of funny feminist text).
Christmas: SORTED
(via danielleh)
We were like an eagle, running. We self-published a book of poetry but
misspelled our own name on the cover. We informed Wellesley College that we didn’t mind offending people. When we thought too much we got physically sick. We used our calligraphy pen in German class. We couldn’t decide if we were the next Jim Morrison or the female Trent Reznor. We couldn’t get our contacts because our piece of shit doctor went out of town. We knew if we learned to play the electric guitar we
would be untouchable. We were bitter and used our SAT words. We asked
him what was wrong and he said “I’ll tell you later.” We knew the darkness between the stars belonged to us because we were The Fallen.
We had a thing about junkies even though we were straight A students
on the swim team. We went miniature golfing and he was acting like an
asshole. We thought “In Search of Spock” was fun but we wanted to meet
dudes. We longed for acceptance but received persecution. We didn’t
know how to spell “receive.” We didn’t call him back and it felt good. We are CRINGE.
Nick is now the same age Princess Diana was when she died. Happy
Disenfranchised Princess Year, baby!
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/17/garden/how-to-tell-if-youre-living-an-over-propped-life.html -
Too vulgar for the New York Times. Fuck that.
How timely, New York Times!
I’ve had that part of the song where Freddy Mercury says “dynamite with a laser beam” in my head all day and I just keep thinking how exhausting that sounds, as a character description, although there was a time in my life that I would have seen it as a challenge or aspiration or something awful like that. My mid-twenties were a lot of fun, but I never miss them.
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