Since it’s been a magazine kind of day, I just couldn’t resist a double post. Thank you Cosmo. I’m going through Cosmo reading very important tips about “How to Touch a Naked Man” and “16 Strokes That Will Send Him over the Edge.” Like on his dick? Thanks for the advice. With this shocking information I will likely revolutionize my relationship. Not to mention that they basically offered the same advice and headlines last month, so either all of their readers are fucking retarded or they think something really magical is about to be revealed to them.
Anyway, I’m reading through and I come across “How to Meet The Perfect Man.” It turns out that a study of married couples revealed that 70% of them met through a mutual friend. So if you reading this right now and I don’t know you, and you’re a friend of my friend, I WILL FIND YOU, and we’ll probably get married. But you know how I’ll find you? by, and this is a direct quotation as you can tell by the quotation marks which are not meant for emphasis this time—I need to “get online” and “shamelessly browse for hot guys in friends’ photos. If you find one, ask that friend if he’s cool and if it’s okay to contact him.” What the fuck. Can you imagine getting a facebook message like that?
Hi Steve. It’s me, Antonia, as you can probably tell from the picture and name at the top of this message, I just want to reach out to you and say, “Hi.” So, hi. HAHAHA See, I was shamelessly browsing my friends’ photos (notice the punctuation? That’s because it was like all of my friends and all of their collective photos respectively) and I saw your picture. I was like OMG he is sooo fucking hot that I just like had to contact you. I’m pretty sure this is going to lead to us being in a long term and meaningful relationship. Hahaha I’m sure you’ve been looking at my picture too : )
Love you,
Antonia
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Maybe I WOULD fucking expect it
I am so sick of reading interviews with famous women. Obviously I’m not talking about particularly classy or deep magazines. I mean in like Glamour or Vogue. Every time I read one these interviews all they say is, “You would not believe how normal so and so is.” Ok here are two examples from March. I literally didn’t even have to look that hard:
On Carrie Underwood: “We’re backstage...watching Carrie do her best impression of a bitchy actress—the key word being impression.”
On Kiera Knightly after she says some self-deprecating comment: “To my ears, this sounds like crazy talk, some sort of English shtick.”
Not only are the authors who wrote this shit commentary shocked but also both of these actresses are like, “OMG can you imagine if I WERE bitchy? ”, by pretending to be bitchy. All I want to fucking read is that they are bitchy, not how shockingly normal they are despite making piles and piles of money and being so naturally thin. Granted the really evil article is also pretty common, but how about something in the middle? Like, “Mischa Barton walked in and pretended to be bitchy—she is like so witty, you’d never expect it!—but you know what? She actually was pretty bitchy, and she also looked fat.” They always say that too: “You would never expect it.” Actually, maybe I would fucking expect it, how do you know what I would expect, ELLE magazine?
On Carrie Underwood: “We’re backstage...watching Carrie do her best impression of a bitchy actress—the key word being impression.”
On Kiera Knightly after she says some self-deprecating comment: “To my ears, this sounds like crazy talk, some sort of English shtick.”
Not only are the authors who wrote this shit commentary shocked but also both of these actresses are like, “OMG can you imagine if I WERE bitchy? ”, by pretending to be bitchy. All I want to fucking read is that they are bitchy, not how shockingly normal they are despite making piles and piles of money and being so naturally thin. Granted the really evil article is also pretty common, but how about something in the middle? Like, “Mischa Barton walked in and pretended to be bitchy—she is like so witty, you’d never expect it!—but you know what? She actually was pretty bitchy, and she also looked fat.” They always say that too: “You would never expect it.” Actually, maybe I would fucking expect it, how do you know what I would expect, ELLE magazine?
Monday, February 22, 2010
I'm not even kidding about this trip.
People love talking about going to the museum.It's like one upping without any effort. You went to the grocery store today? Yeah, well I went to the museum. Yeah, it's true: the museum. I'm not even kidding about this trip. I just went on my own because that’s the sort of thing I care about: art.
And going to the museum with people always sounds like a great idea, like people like proposing a trip to the museum rather than actually being there: OMG we should totally check out the Bronzino at the Met. OMG YES ! I have wanted to see that for a while; I heard it’s really good. So everyone’s validated each other but then they’re fucked because you actually have to go. Then this exchange happens: What do you think? What do YOU think? And everyone reads the little plaque next to the painting, counts to fifteen so that everyone knows they are not only taking in but also appreciate the work, then makes some noise like a "mmm" or "huh", which means, yup, I know.
Then maybe, when you’re walking around, you’ll pass some fucks sketching in their notebooks pretending they go to arts school and, you know what, maybe they do, but their drawings suck. Have you realized that? I’ve never passed anyone sketching and thought, “Wow look at that. That girl, yeah the one in the patterned shirt that is layered over the other patterned shirt, she can really sketch. Look at her pencil go!” In the rare case that someone is even moderately impressive, they know they are and so they stop to “look at the painting” for an extended period of time so that you can check out their work. Then, when they do go back to drawing, they change a fucking eyelash.
And going to the museum with people always sounds like a great idea, like people like proposing a trip to the museum rather than actually being there: OMG we should totally check out the Bronzino at the Met. OMG YES ! I have wanted to see that for a while; I heard it’s really good. So everyone’s validated each other but then they’re fucked because you actually have to go. Then this exchange happens: What do you think? What do YOU think? And everyone reads the little plaque next to the painting, counts to fifteen so that everyone knows they are not only taking in but also appreciate the work, then makes some noise like a "mmm" or "huh", which means, yup, I know.
Then maybe, when you’re walking around, you’ll pass some fucks sketching in their notebooks pretending they go to arts school and, you know what, maybe they do, but their drawings suck. Have you realized that? I’ve never passed anyone sketching and thought, “Wow look at that. That girl, yeah the one in the patterned shirt that is layered over the other patterned shirt, she can really sketch. Look at her pencil go!” In the rare case that someone is even moderately impressive, they know they are and so they stop to “look at the painting” for an extended period of time so that you can check out their work. Then, when they do go back to drawing, they change a fucking eyelash.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Hurray for Jesus!
Happy Ash Wednesday. Don't forget to put some ash on your forehead so everyone knows you're not fucking around with religion.
Ok, Ok, NO! NO! Maybe.
I promise this post isn't as long as it looks.
Here’s something I don’t understand, right off the bat, when the bus driver tells everyone to be safe and gives a little talk, he wraps up by saying, “I hope you enjoy your ride.” I know this is a fairly typical thing to say but I think it deserves a bit of attention. Who sits on the bus thinking, “Woowee boy am I enjoying myself”? But all the same, I’m glad he pointed out that levels of fun could be had because I know that I distinctly did not enjoy myself and this can now be placed on a spectrum.
Before I got on the bus I decided to join the other people in line, who also got there early and want everyone to know that their decision was not only a good one but also beneficial. Usually I don’t do this because there really is no point, but this time I thought, “Fuck it, I’ll do it.” This meant that I got a window seat, which is awesome, and, unlike everyone else, I did not put my bag on the second seat because I already know—intuitively—that this would be a full bus. Do you realize that you always watch everyone file into the bus and think about who is going to sit next to you: “ok that one would be fine, ok, ok, ok, NO! NO! NO! Maybe.”
I actually think there something worse than someone’s ass squishing over the armrest into your seat: the eater. Why do people think it’s ok to get, like, spicy chicken curry before they get on the bus? Hey, guess what? It’s fucking not; because, as your sitting three seats over stuffing your face, the smell comes over to my elephantine partner and I, and we don’t like it.
So there’s that person, and then there’s also this person, I won’t even preface it.
Hey! How are you? Yeah, I’m just on the bus. Yeaaah. I’m like really bored. We’re stuck in traffic so I thought I’d call you because I have nothing else to do.
Thanks friend! Because I also have nothing else to do but I am so thrilled that you just called your friends so I can listen to your conversation like a book on tape. That’s right, I’m on the bus too! I know, its hard to remember, but I really appreciate you including me on your conversation.
The real-life conversation I actually heard continued like this....
Ya me and Sarah [chick sitting next to her] are so bored we started having a conversation about like a random word that we picked. So she picked the word “telephone” and then we talked about the telephone.
Ok, this slut is having a conversation on the phone about having a conversation about the phone. This was real. This is really the kind of shit I listened to on the bus yesterday. Unfortunately, her intriguing conversation was cut short when the bus stopped at Arby’s and everyone got out to buy food and talk about the bus.
Here’s something I don’t understand, right off the bat, when the bus driver tells everyone to be safe and gives a little talk, he wraps up by saying, “I hope you enjoy your ride.” I know this is a fairly typical thing to say but I think it deserves a bit of attention. Who sits on the bus thinking, “Woowee boy am I enjoying myself”? But all the same, I’m glad he pointed out that levels of fun could be had because I know that I distinctly did not enjoy myself and this can now be placed on a spectrum.
Before I got on the bus I decided to join the other people in line, who also got there early and want everyone to know that their decision was not only a good one but also beneficial. Usually I don’t do this because there really is no point, but this time I thought, “Fuck it, I’ll do it.” This meant that I got a window seat, which is awesome, and, unlike everyone else, I did not put my bag on the second seat because I already know—intuitively—that this would be a full bus. Do you realize that you always watch everyone file into the bus and think about who is going to sit next to you: “ok that one would be fine, ok, ok, ok, NO! NO! NO! Maybe.”
I actually think there something worse than someone’s ass squishing over the armrest into your seat: the eater. Why do people think it’s ok to get, like, spicy chicken curry before they get on the bus? Hey, guess what? It’s fucking not; because, as your sitting three seats over stuffing your face, the smell comes over to my elephantine partner and I, and we don’t like it.
So there’s that person, and then there’s also this person, I won’t even preface it.
Hey! How are you? Yeah, I’m just on the bus. Yeaaah. I’m like really bored. We’re stuck in traffic so I thought I’d call you because I have nothing else to do.
Thanks friend! Because I also have nothing else to do but I am so thrilled that you just called your friends so I can listen to your conversation like a book on tape. That’s right, I’m on the bus too! I know, its hard to remember, but I really appreciate you including me on your conversation.
The real-life conversation I actually heard continued like this....
Ya me and Sarah [chick sitting next to her] are so bored we started having a conversation about like a random word that we picked. So she picked the word “telephone” and then we talked about the telephone.
Ok, this slut is having a conversation on the phone about having a conversation about the phone. This was real. This is really the kind of shit I listened to on the bus yesterday. Unfortunately, her intriguing conversation was cut short when the bus stopped at Arby’s and everyone got out to buy food and talk about the bus.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Your general bohemian attitude
I was walking past a thrift shop yesterday and they had their valentines day window set up: used underwear in Victoria’s Secret bags. I just thought, “Wow, that is so gross.” Can you imagine if your boyfriend bought you that as a gift? “Here you go honey. I heard good things happened in this outfit before.” There was time in my life where I thought shopping at vintage stores was just the coolest thing possible. Like now, when I go into American Apparel and have these mini hallucinations about being cool and my body looking acceptable in a variety of multi-colored spandex. It doesn’t. I think a large part of going to vintage shops is talking about that you went there.
Hey Susie I just love that top, where did you get it?
Oh, its vintage. I got it at this really cool shop that no one even knows about. You go into this regular shop and then, if you know the password, you enter this trap door, follow it down through a super-secret tunnel, and wind up in a small room filled with clothing. I doubt you’ll ever find it.
Another option, which is just as totally awesome, is to say you got it in some foreign country; preferably like Ghana or Mumbai, because there is no way you super white friend has been there and they will be impressed at your general bohemian attitude and wordly ways.
Looove love that dress
Yes, I got it at flea market in South Africa when I was traveling there with just a backpack and cool bandana to keep my hair back. I didn’t bring any money with me because I really wanted to immerse myself in the culture and they are like super fucking poor. I thought, “OMG I need that dress” so I bartered some shit.
Hey Susie I just love that top, where did you get it?
Oh, its vintage. I got it at this really cool shop that no one even knows about. You go into this regular shop and then, if you know the password, you enter this trap door, follow it down through a super-secret tunnel, and wind up in a small room filled with clothing. I doubt you’ll ever find it.
Another option, which is just as totally awesome, is to say you got it in some foreign country; preferably like Ghana or Mumbai, because there is no way you super white friend has been there and they will be impressed at your general bohemian attitude and wordly ways.
Looove love that dress
Yes, I got it at flea market in South Africa when I was traveling there with just a backpack and cool bandana to keep my hair back. I didn’t bring any money with me because I really wanted to immerse myself in the culture and they are like super fucking poor. I thought, “OMG I need that dress” so I bartered some shit.
Friday, February 5, 2010
WHERE THE HELL are my notifications?
If facebook is updated one more time I’m going to freak out. I signed on yesterday to do some routine stalking and opened up to “Welcome to your new, simplified home page.” Was it really that complex before? Honestly, what THE FUCK does Mark Zuckerburg do all day? I think he might actually do less than me. Maybe he just sits in front of his fucking computer and thinks, “Hmmm now what if I moved that icon over there, and what if I like made the other ones smaller but also relocated them.” Ok Mark, it needs to stop. I’m sorry. Because I’m pretty sure I “got it” before.
Yes, that’s right, I was actually able to use the old facebook which you have now deemed too confusing; but, hey, at least I’m feeling good about myself since I was able to figure it the first time around. Whatever facebook threw at me—BAM I fucking got it. “Tagged friends” is in a new place? Whatever, I’ll find it. I don’t have initial access to some guy’s profile? Not a problem, I’ll just go through someone else’s photo album.
Now, however, I’m going to see all the new shit “grouped together by the facebook logo.” I’m not much of a code reader, nor am I into symbols, and I don’t know why they need to be grouped anyway. Who signs on to facebook and is like, “WHERE THE HELL are my notifications?” Not me. And you know what, MARK, I didn’t say anything we you started to tell me who I should be friends with or who I had lost touch with because, to be honest again, I felt like your expectations were a little high. And, while I feel bad about letting you down every time I sign in, I’m not actually friends with all my “friends,” so I wish you would step back a bit.
Yes, that’s right, I was actually able to use the old facebook which you have now deemed too confusing; but, hey, at least I’m feeling good about myself since I was able to figure it the first time around. Whatever facebook threw at me—BAM I fucking got it. “Tagged friends” is in a new place? Whatever, I’ll find it. I don’t have initial access to some guy’s profile? Not a problem, I’ll just go through someone else’s photo album.
Now, however, I’m going to see all the new shit “grouped together by the facebook logo.” I’m not much of a code reader, nor am I into symbols, and I don’t know why they need to be grouped anyway. Who signs on to facebook and is like, “WHERE THE HELL are my notifications?” Not me. And you know what, MARK, I didn’t say anything we you started to tell me who I should be friends with or who I had lost touch with because, to be honest again, I felt like your expectations were a little high. And, while I feel bad about letting you down every time I sign in, I’m not actually friends with all my “friends,” so I wish you would step back a bit.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Try to stay warm!
The great thing about the weather is that going outside really makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. It’s so cold that just walking is a fucking adventure. Everywhere I arrive I think, “Yes, I did it.” (Obviously, this state of “arrival” only happens about once a day, after I walk the dogs and come back to my apartment). The other thing about being in the cold, if you’re out with a group and not just dogs, is that everyone speaks like they’re in a war film and their conversation is being timed.
HEY!!!!!!
HI! HI!!!!!
What do you want to do?!!!!!!
IT'S SO FUCKING COLD
I KNOW!!!
And, of course, all you can talk about is being cold and then some ass hole is like, “Is it cold enough for you?” Is it cold enough for me?! No, it’s not really “cold enough” for me until my breath freezes in the air and falls cracking at my feet; then I know I've really conquered mother earth because I'm still in one piece. And then they say something like “Try to stay warm” Oh thank you, it's lucky you happened to mention that because, since I'm retarded, I have no idea what to do when it's cold out. Anyway, is staying warm a super hard thing to do? I mean, if you stay inside, or if you dress appropriately, I think you’ve probably got it. “Oh what did you do today?” “Well, I just tried to stay warm during the morning but then I went for a walk and, you know what, I fucking made it. Then, right around dinner, I realized that it wasn’t cold enough for me but luckily my mother came home and opened up all the windows in our apartment."
HEY!!!!!!
HI! HI!!!!!
What do you want to do?!!!!!!
IT'S SO FUCKING COLD
I KNOW!!!
And, of course, all you can talk about is being cold and then some ass hole is like, “Is it cold enough for you?” Is it cold enough for me?! No, it’s not really “cold enough” for me until my breath freezes in the air and falls cracking at my feet; then I know I've really conquered mother earth because I'm still in one piece. And then they say something like “Try to stay warm” Oh thank you, it's lucky you happened to mention that because, since I'm retarded, I have no idea what to do when it's cold out. Anyway, is staying warm a super hard thing to do? I mean, if you stay inside, or if you dress appropriately, I think you’ve probably got it. “Oh what did you do today?” “Well, I just tried to stay warm during the morning but then I went for a walk and, you know what, I fucking made it. Then, right around dinner, I realized that it wasn’t cold enough for me but luckily my mother came home and opened up all the windows in our apartment."
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