I lay face-down, trying to be calm. “Just relax,” he whispered. I have trouble doing that, relaxing, especially when someone is asking me to do so, but I tried. It’s a little easier because I’d just had some champagne in the locker room.
And because of this, because of our insane obsession with people who happen to be thinner (or force themselves to be through a life of never knowing Nutella, God help them), we have somehow managed to concoct words that we can use to “address” the “interesting beauty” of a woman any bigger than, say, Adriana Lima.
To a hot girl at the bar after about five drinks: “…Mostly about sex and power. And about the lies that we all tell ourselves.”
There was an enormous bowl of trashcan punch, and I told my friend, “Let me tell you a secret: I love fruit punch.” He said, “Well, that’s good because this has everclear in it.” I immediately recognized this as portentous news because a) I love fruit punch, b) I can’t stop drinking fruit punch, and c) My fragile baby girl physiology could only withstand maybe one cup of this fruit punch.
Truth be told, I kind of love Avril. She makes unabashed catchy pop and makes no bones about the fact that she’s sort of a joke. But I can’t, won’t, don’t get behind the atrocity that is “Girlfriend.”