Can I please be as confident as Britney?
I’ve realized that my confidence is increasing as I get older. Ultimately I’d like to have the same amount as Britney Spears. It takes an ass full, a ridiculous Nicki Minaj ass full of confidence to have all the money that she has, and appear on tv looking like a washed up abused prostitute who’s been sitting in the sun for 10 straight years while buses come by to run her over. Then reverse over her to flee the scene. Having even just a million dollars could have breathed some effing life back into her, but she has so much more than that, and she couldn’t even be bothered with a simple chemical peel, or a decent hair dye job. Where the eff is her money going?? I, on the other hand, have actually overdrawn my bank account in the last month, and I’m still trying infinitely harder to look like buses have not run me over.
Sundance Guy
I saw a super chic 40-something year old guy yesterday at the Sundance Theater. He wore slim chinos, a plaid oxford shirt with a fitted cardigan and some Wayfarers. He was gay, but that’s not the point. The point is I was in love with him. Carrying popcorn, a hot dog, and a soda, he strutted to his seat like Gisele on the runway.* I carried my Shame-sized soda, my Defeat-hot-dog and ate it on the way to my seat. Sundance guy was stunning, and his clothes knew not a single wrinkle. How the hell does a person make the trip to the movies without even slightly wrinkling his pants? Even if I perfectly steam my clothes before dressing, I’ll always look like I pulled them from a cold dryer, threw them on in a hurry, then walked right out the front door and traded a sweaty hobo for his outfit. I want to be this guy. I want people to look at me and say, “Hey, look at that cool older gay man.”
*Does Gisele still do runways? Who the eff knows. Anyone who does know is not reading this.
Ironic Chic
I understand vintage chic. A classic pair of Raybans, a shirtdress, an oxord shoe - some things never go out of style. And some things go violently out of style. Like Shape Ups or…shape ups. Styles that should be burned and then erased from society’s collective memory thrive in the ironic basement of old that is American Apparel. You know how when you see an old picture of yourself in denim knee length shorts with one purple leg and one yellow leg, and you cringe and think, “I don’t remember starring in a Spike Lee Joint.”** Well, AA is just one big Spike Lee joint with price tags on everything.
This is an actual picture featured on the American Apparel website in the last year. If she weren’t so white, I might have considered sponsoring her for the price of a cup of coffee a day.
**Take two: “I don’t remember being a guest star on Martin.”
Pretending to be a Douche
There are plenty of reasons why I don’t like him, and it’s for much more than the fact that after correctly guessing the weight of a box, he celebrated with the phrase “I’m a baller,” and it wasn’t followed by, “haha, that’s just something I woulda said if I was a douche.” And it’s not because he wears oxford shirts with too many buttons undone, and he doesn’t even have the decency to be attractive or have a lot of money. It’s not even because he’s passed 30 and still wears Abercrombie and Fitch. Those aren’t reasons to hate someone. In fact, you should not hate someone.
I hate him. It’s because he does things like have a lot of body fat, but walks with his arms sticking out almost perpendicular to his body like he always just finished lifting a car. He sticks his head up the ass of a new cute girl in the office, and says “my wife” every five words, probably to prove that at least one woman has willingly had sex with him in his lifetime. He also sits 20 feet from me, and I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure something is wrong with you if every time you sit down, you make a sound like you’re Al Pacino in that movie where he’s a blind dancing army general. Something is medically wrong with you, or you’re an asshole.
I’m not a jerk, I’m civil, and generally respectful, but I know I can never TRULY respect this guy. I can never look him in the eye and say something like “good morning,” or “excuse me,” without REALLY meaning, “Uuugh. Ew.” And my “ew” is not meant to imply that he’s disgusting. It’s meant to imply that I’m thoroughly annoyed by this guy who once said (in a group conversation about high school), “all I remember is being cool, sitting at the jock table, and being cool,” and it wasn’t followed by, “oh, that’s just me pretending to be a douche.”
A Short Undeserved Boast
So I was feeling good about myself the other day. My usual mild self-loathing took a backseat to the good mood that was ‘The Other Day’. I had a good look on. No 9am mustard stain. Where the hell does that mustard come from?? The other day - my shirt was clean and I made it the whole day completely unaffected by my usual threats; threats like workplace terrorists.
Usually, by 5, I’m soooooo suicidal by train wreck of oil, pale, frizz and smeared eyeliner that is Evening Me. And this is not oil, frizz and smeared eyeliner, like I was nice looking that morning and the day took it’s toll on me. This is oil, frizz, and smeared eyeliner like, I looked nice that morning, but then I had a seizure, while crying, in a sauna. But I was in rare form on The Other Day: a tolerable sight.
I know that being meeting society’s standards for well-adjusted 20-something does not warrant a blog-post-boast, but I really feel the need to stress how…decent I feel. It’s good to feel decent sometimes.
