Ok so, we were at Splash and all of a sudden we see this vaguely Latino guy, fist-pumping to Britney, wearing fingerless gloves and a bandana. He didn’t seem very friendly.
Would it be wrong to accept a job if he offers?
It’s a recession, fuck ethics!
You looked so cute, drunk and unconscious.
What is Drew Barrymore doing in this movie? A 35-year-old playing a 25-year-old playing a 17-year-old… someone get this bitch an Oscar!
Like those guys at Minibar who just wait to see who walks in the door and think that the ozone layer is a new Zirh product?
Well, after that, you had one drink and then a double drink, we danced to GaGa for a while, then you disappeared, then I found you and you were talking to some guys and then we separated again and then... some random guy called me telling me you were passed out at the Howard El stop and he needed your address to throw you in a cab home!
That girl has a good body!
She looks like somebody’s Asian grandma.
My roommates must think I need some serious psychological help.
He thinks we’re fucking hooking up. He does not know in how many ways we’re not hooking up.
What do you think is the minimum requirement for being a cab driver?
Hmmm, driver's license, being able to read, knowing the city and a good personality is a plus.
Yeah, well, I have two bachelor degrees. Computer science and civil engineering.
So now your boyfriend clearly thinks I’m an alcoholic.
Did she really just start serenading that burrito place on Addison with “Always Be My Baby”?
(Black girl on the dancefloor of a gay club) Are you bi?
You know when Will Hamlin’s telling you to move…
…you better fucking jump!
This is like watching a live performance of something on Xtube… if you were to search, overweight, sweaty men, grinding on each other and showing their butt cracks.
And then he lures me onto the dancefloor and then runs away, suggesting for me to go chase after him. But I'm like, "Really?! You're really going to leave me by myself in the middle of this crowded dancefloor?" So I just turned around and started talking to a cuter guy.
We just talked genuinely, which is more than I can say for any other conversation I had today. “What's your major? What’s your major? What's your major? What's your major?” My major is fuckoff. I kept having to say “philosophy, philosophy, philosophy” each time feeling more and more foolish. Great, I'm basically telling people who love to judge that in the future I plan to warm my hands around a garbage can fire and drink ripple out of a paper bag. “Grad school? Grad school? Grad school?” “yes, yes, yes.”
Um, all these people have been starting following me on Twitter including an entrepreneurial scientist with a really creepy old man picture, he’s following 1,067 people and has 539 followers.
He’s drinking in the morning!
I’m not drinking, I’m still drunk, but I’m not drinking!
Something about this song reminds me of high school. Actually, pretty much everything about this song reminds me of high school. Maybe it’s the lead singer’s whiny voice or the lyrics straight out of a LiveJournal entry or the overpowering violins as a way of using orchestration to accredit an otherwise “emo” anthem.
I first listened to this song sometime last week, and it immediately brought me back to the year 2004. Not surprisingly, it was around that time when the song was first released.
When graduation meant getting anxious about giving a speech, not waiting to get it over with.
When film school and Hollywood seemed a far more unstable career choice than magazine writing.
When a boy kissed you because he meant it, not just to prove that he could.
Before I cared if anyone thought I was a good writer. And I just felt it.
Before I knew that starting over always means starting new. And I was ready.
"Unlike the West, whose story has been told and retold so many times in art, the Chinese had a legitimate narrative to inspire its artists. For the first generation of postmodern artists, their freedom became a tool of purgation confronting and illuminating the heinous injustices, irretrievable losses, and brutality of the political regime. How could it be told in metaphor and presented in an international style that would allow its meaning to enter the global culture? It is the art of a subculture that propagandizes free thought and originality rather than collectivism (even if some artists employ collective processes to create their work)."
My mom would've been so proud of me for finally being attracted to a Mexican and fuck me, he wasn't even interested. I give up! Back to Black guys, I guess.
Then on BART, it was fucking crowded, raining, this one bitch fainted and held up the train for 20 minutes. On my car too. People were all "call the conductor, someone's fainted!" Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. "What's the gender? Male or female? Male or female?” Confusion. “Male or female? Black or white? Black or white.” Um… Black female.
And then the squirrel came back with like four of five friends and it’s like, “what now, bitch?”
Oh actually, I think I date raped you the first time we hooked up.
You think you're entitled?
You're being sketchy and tried to sneak in!
Why should we give you your money back?
And you called her a bitch!
You called Jenny a bitch!? How COULD you!?
I didn't call her a bitch! I'm being completely misunderstood!
There are so many hot guys in the South?
Yeah, straight guys.
Straight until they’re in your mouth.
Then you stole a bottle of tequila from the shelf at Scarlet the night before it burnt down.
Wow, that's a lot of liquid to swallow in such a short time.
And then they had a scale in their bathroom and I thought, “I wonder how much I weigh in gayworld.”
(After third tequila shot) I need three minutes to get happy after that.
Excuse me!? Can you stop talking about Britney, so I can finish my story about how I almost died?
This is how I know I’m a bad bisexual.
Well what if you look better without your boxers on?
It is my goal this year to launch my online vegan bakery, because hell, why not.
If you get offered a handjob, it’s usually from someone you don’t want to get a handjob from.
Hey what are you doing right now?
I’m at a bar, drinking by myself, wearing clear Ray Bans. I just got kicked out of Smartbar for being a smart ass, then I tried to get in through the Metro by buying last minute tickets to their show, but got caught. Then all the employees surrounded me and ganged up on me, wouldn’t give me my money back. I lost my voice, my phone is about to die and all my friends are already inside, and I’m the one who picked out the fucking bar! So now I’m waiting to meet up with other people. If not, I’m just going to go to a random bar and make out with a stranger on the dancefloor.
Ok, well… will you be able to make it to an on-camera interview tomorrow at 2?
A problem with making the computer personal again (and capable of containing every piece of information in whichever medium) is that if we lose it, we lose it all. It’s a lesson you all learned in elementary school, I learned it probably sometime last year: back-up.
Last year Calvin Harris’s luggage containing his laptop and seven months worth of new album went missing in Heathrow due to baggage handling problems. It was the only copy of several new songs featuring collaborations with Kylie Minogue, for whom Calvin wrote “In My Arms.”
Even when airports are operating at their maximum efficiency (right), computers—or in Shakira’s case: sheet music—can still get stolen, hence the title of her re-conceptualized album, Donde Estan los Ladrones?
And, of course, airports aren’t the only places susceptible to crime. Cuban author Reinaldo Arenas had to rewrite his controversial memoir several times before he was able to smuggle it out of the island and publish it away from Castro’s grasp.
So perhaps the 3rd grade lesson shouldn’t be to try to take every measure to avoid the unpredictable worse. Airports will be messiest when you want to come home the most, hard-drives will crash when you least expect it, dictators and thieves will always wear a mask. We’ll never be ready for what (or how) the chaos will take from us next. The best we can do is, not back-up, but learn to recuperate afterwards and rewrite that damn song.
"Returning to a land left behind poses challenges for returning migrants. In a city like Morelia, where many locals still wear traditional indigenous dress and some even wear cowboy hats, a Mexican who has lived in the United States can be spotted a mile away. The returnees wear clothes from stores like Urban Outfitters (and not the knockoff versions that are popular among ordinary Mexicans), sport new sneakers, and don baseball caps of U.S. teams (again, not the fakes). They’ll shun straws that aren’t pre-wrapped, and according to some local policemen, they are clueless about the ‘code’ — in other words, when to pay a bribe in order to avoid the laborious process of paying a traffic ticket."
So my friend's sister goes to Vanderbilt, and for their Dillo Day they're getting N.E.R.D., Santigold and the Flaming Lips, and they're waiting to announce the headliner.
Hmm, so you're impressed?
Anyway, we had a huge fight on Saturday night 'cause I kissed a guy in front of him 'cause I'd taken Klonopin and drank and blacked out and told him to hit on a girl so we could have a threesome... but then got jealous.
Have you noticed XTube’s redesign?
No, I gave up porn for lent. Well, straight porn.
"Foster-Walker student caught with marijuana, drug paraphernalia" (The Daily Northwestern Police Blotter).
So is the devil.
So am I.
You are the devil.
That's the second time this week you've said that to me!
So maybe I revealed way too much about my sexual history and told you straight-up I wanted to be in a relationship with you—which is like the two worst things you could say to a guy on the 2nd date—but I took it in the face!
He's like, "Oh look at me! I'm 27, still wear Abercrombie, with a stagnant career in retail and the highlight of my week is $12 vodka lemonade pitchers at Roscoe's."
And his ex-girlfriend used to model for Marc Jacobs!
Whatever! But you better be on a diet…
So I clicked on the banner because I KNOW I have a higher IQ than Vanessa Hudgens... but then again, my hard drive is full of pictures of me in my briefs holding up my shirt with my teeth.
So I guess Kurt finally went to Rush last night, but I was apartment-partying in Williamsburg.
Oh my god, you guys have switched places… like Freaky Friday!
I’m so sick of this “not being famous” shit.
Why are you going home with that douche?
You think he sucks?
You’re right… he sucks.
"Dear Real World Applicant— Congratulations! We liked your video submission and have decided to offer you a special opportunity to audition in person!"
Ok, I’m speeding down the highway and holding the phone and my drink with one hand while talking to you about blowjobs... this is terrible!
You went again this week?
I know… it's like... I’ve been seDeuced.
She always wants to know what I’m doing, she asked to go to my hair stylist, who is referral-only, and she’s always going through my closet looking for "inspiration." It’s like… she wants a piece of me!
"That’s your boyfriend? What-whatever. I know I can do you a lot better."