Going from social smooth sailor to all-out pariah isn’t easy, but trust me – if I can do it, so can you. And I’m here to help.
“Do you know that girl?” my mom will say, “She ordered the spicy tuna. You LOVE spicy tuna.” No, I do not know her. We have never met. There are 7 billion people on this Earth and many of them eat sushi.
I came to realize that this was probably the reason her two previous boyfriends had broken up with her. I also discovered that her parents had found out, and as you can imagine that news caused them some distress.
One of Yankovic’s most famous songs, “Amish Paradise,” provoked the wrath of Coolio, who didn’t appreciate having his solemn gangland rap turned into a silly lark about the Amish.
I challenge you to, next time you’re at a party, pull down your pants and pee on the floor in front of everyone. As a dog, you’d be forgiven after flashing a fake smile and giving your ass a little shake. As a person, you’re lucky if nobody calls the cops.
I want to remember the fear, I want to remember the promise, I want to remember the nights I wanted to curl up in a ball, I want to remember the people I’m not supposed to remember, I want to remember not knowing myself, I want to remember the moment I started to feel safe and like this life I’m leading is really mine.
No one can actually make those diets do any good for them, because the second you get done with them, you just stick your face directly into a chocolate cake and eat your way through to the table.
Kiki’s “traveling to America” story was pretty dark, because her family had to cross the Atlantic on some old-ass boat, and *spoiler alert* her bff, Marta, died on the way over, thanks to immigration during the 19th century being very dangerous/unsanitary.
Tim Tebow has been traded to the New York Jets. The football-slinging messiah and the city of New York is a match made in heaven. Here’s why.
In the past, to appease the fandom desires of their kids, my parents have: attended midnight screenings of all LOTR movies, seen four *NSync concerts, dressed up like the Teletubbies, driven two hours to a book signing by the cast of RENT and DVRed every episode of Ryan Seacrest’s daily talk show.
At American Girl Place, there’s a doll salon where you can get your American Girl doll a new hairstyle. If spending all day every day working with fake hair for bratty seven-year-old girls isn’t demoralizing, I don’t know what is. If I worked there, I’d shave all the dolls’ hair off and just call it “The Britney.”
It’s true that there was a time when emails went undelivered. It happened the same year you bought your pager, the same year you lost the floppy disk that had all your homework on it, and the same year you purchased that first Ja Rule album and thought that yellow Hummers were cool.
When you’re surrounded by people who are smarter than you, and oft times better looking — not to mention younger — and one of these smart, hot, young people tells you with a hint of sensitivity that you will probably have to pay them $700 or something like that, under fluorescent lighting no less, you are maybe in the most uncomfortable place in the world.
It happens when you’re walking rigorously toward somewhere you needed to be ten minutes ago and see ten moments of your past whizzing by.
Even after we became used to being constantly sneered at and belittled and insulted and demeaned, we were shocked every time he really crossed the line. I used to fantasize that he would die in a car accident, and daydream about how happy we would be if we heard that he wasn’t coming back through that front door.
I have always needed some sort of reward after studying, and in this case the reward
is just around the corner. Five minutes of polite German conversation and then…the sex!
Another downfall of being in your twenties: each sex feels superior to the other. Girls hate boys, boys hate girls. It’s like elementary school again except this time cooties are real and they are called STDs.
Because I didn’t know why I was so mad that night until my fingers hit the keyboard the next morning and the words crawled through my fingertips. Because the ring she buried in the palm of my hand was three-years heavy. Because I almost got married and need to know how…
Everything is derivative, nothing is original and yeah, “Simpsons did it” — no one is saying otherwise. What we are arguing about is the claim by Suzanne Collins, author of The Hunger Games, that before handing in her manuscript, she had never heard of Battle Royale.
You learn that the person who once protected you from all harm could one day become the harm. They could become the thing they spent so much time shielding you from. That’s how it always seems to work though, doesn’t? We give people power over our lives, we let them dictate the rhythms, and then we act surprised when there’s scratches.
I’m still in the dark, so to speak, as to why I need to waste precious energy getting out of bed to turn my light on and off when the technology exists to get the job done in an efficient — and festive — manner.
I call major BS on something like Samantha Baker and Jake Ryan getting together at the end of Sixteen Candles. First of all, if this were real life, Jake Ryan would’ve been a total dick. In the movie, he’s portrayed as being over the whole popularity thing, secretly sensitive and so misunderstood. Um, no.
And on the left, utilitarianism tends to say: “Well, we should have institutions that help everybody in the world.” Well, that sounds nice, but there’s this odd and difficult empirical fact, which is that people are really, really good at extending themselves and helping those that are close to them, and really, really bad at doing it for people far away.
I hear it all the time. Gals will meet a guy and he’s great and totally not weird, so they go on a few dates and that goes great, too, and so the relationship progresses to a point where they both feel comfortable just hanging out at his apartment, and now, suddenly, they’re confronted with exactly how much time their guy spends messing around on xbox.
Despite only being a duo, these guys absolutely earn the title of boy band, if for nothing other than the baby-butt softness of their music. Listening to one of their songs is like covering yourself in cotton balls and floating on a cloud through a river of fabric softener.
I’ve had holes in my jeans before, but I’ve never had a two-inch gash where my crotch goes. I’m splitting my pants right down the middle, like a vivisected turkey on Thanksgiving. I’m losing my tenuous grip on physical attractiveness. I see my hair thinning, my posture worsening and my bank account dwindling.
Before the sun rises I’ll read the news and catch up on what’s been going on in the world since I’ve been asleep. I also use this time to catch up on any missed TV shows from the night before. Sometimes I’ll even cook pasta or rice in the morning.
No, wait, just listen! There’s a crawl space, you see, with wires, pipes, insulation, and I — being a man of small proportions — managed to nestle my modest frame inside like a tiny unemployed baby in a womb full of roaches and mouse skeletons.
I know it’s totally uncool to listen to jam bands past your 17th birthday or once the lease on your Jeep Wrangler expires — whichever comes first — but “Crush” is still a really sexy song.
Calling someone a name is a lazy person’s resource. It takes away all of their collected knowledge, their education and their manners, putting them in the same class as barbarian trolls who don’t know any better.
It’s weird — even foreign people who work their asses off 12-14 hours a day to help support their families (and extended families) expect some modicum of respect and decency from the Americans who call them for assistance.
Blab all you can about your sex life… Enrich the world with your own unique form of awfulness. For that — and kitten photos — is what the internet was created for. …Go forth, my winged monkey creatures, and blab.
Someday I will adopt a little pug guy and we will live happily ever after. I’ll get married to some dreamboat and we’ll all live together in some impossibly chic brownstone. We’ll take the dog for four hour walks just so people can be totally jealous of our lives. “Look at that well-adjusted gay couple with a dog! A DOG!”
There are few things worse than realizing, the second it’s too late to go back and change, that your outfit looks like something your grandmother would have dressed you in as a child, shortly after her cataract surgery.
Herein lies all the emotionally vulnerable emails you sent to failed romances to which have not received a response (though part of you still waits), emails composed in bed and impulsively sent around 1:45 a.m., you probably naked.
In the morning you’ll think “I am not the girl my mom raised.” The cool story he impressed you with will seem like a lie. His clothes, messing up your floor, are only highlighting the mess he’d add to your life.
Pretty much every man on the parental fence knows, in the back of his head, hot girls will magically start flirting once that kid arrives. It’s what seals the fatherhood deal most of the time. In fact, close inspection of the Baby Bjorn owner’s manual shows that the world’s finest uncomfortable papoose-looking thingy was created to specifically aid a stay-at-home dad’s quest for Wednesday afternoon oral.
Even though I don’t really have religious beliefs, I sat through Left Behind just to see you. I couldn’t help noticing how sexual you looked, though. It was wrong, Kirk, wrong.
Yet it somehow felt rude, like this human being I had formed a relationship with over the years, whose paramount life experiences were loyally transcribed and reciprocated in chat, did not withstand the match between himself and my daily crap.
They’re just filled with milk. That’s what we had in elementary school, bags of milk, loosely based on the boob. But no, your boobs don’t just fill up with milk alone, there are, like, layers of insulation to keep the milk cold, right?
Sleep over at your friend’s house. Normally you hate sleeping in someone else’s bed but it feels right this time. You wake up next to your best friend feeling so happy you did. So much better than waking up alone or next to a one-night stand.
The smell of potatoes and sausage was rushing up from my plate, caching itself in my nostrils, and — like fetid milk — making me nauseous. I hadn’t been able to keep down breakfast since summer.
You have ideas when you’re not trying to. That’s when ideas happen. “All the good ideas that I ever had came to me while I was milking a cow,” said a very famous person, once upon a time.
Analyze every little thing they do to you. Feel distant from them when they don’t talk to you for ten minutes when you all go out to get drinks with friends. Decide that this means they hate you and will never want to see you naked.
It’s saying to your partner, “I don’t care if you want me to share this, I don’t care if you wanted this private, I want to tell everyone what happened, and I’m going to do it.”
Like hovercraft skateboards and lightsabers, many of these items would already exist if scientists would buckle down and get their priorities straight. Here is a (partial) list of foods we should have by now.
I once heard an actual Portlander say (and I quote, as evidenced by the upcoming quotation marks): “If it’s yellow, let it mellow.” This trite rhyme and disgustingly hippy tendency in an effort to conserve water did not make me vomit or scream, but it did make me turn up my nose and just feel generally sad and grossed out.
Super Mario Bros. 3, Castlevania, Excitebike. All are available for your private procrastination consumption via emulators. For those less savvy, an emulator is a program you can install on your computer that emulates the environment of a favorite video game system you used to play.
…I am not afraid. I was born for this.
I am troubled that the culture that reared me seems to be one that gets off on the failure of others, as if somehow sadness is sexy. Perhaps some vestige of social Darwinism, we seem to celebrate when the lionized crumble, and the applause only escalates when the fall is damaging and the person is left bruised, naked, and shamed.