Overrated Hipster Douchebaggery



I hope Lana Del Rey and Tyler the Creator really do work on a project together. I hope Kanye West produces it. I hope Kesha is featured on it. I hope Dov Charney sponsors it. I hope Terry Richardson shoots it. I hope Perez Hilton covers it. I hope Steve Aoki does a remix.

I hope all of these things, and I hope it turns into an orgiastic frenzy of overrated hipster douchebaggery of such monumental proportions that every pop-culture consumer immediately starts recognizing soulless empty-headed mediocrity for what it is, and Coachella goes back to being just one weekend.

I hope.


Coke Talk of the Day

I almost have a home again.

At the tail end of last year, I sold all of my furniture, stuffed all of my worldly possessions into a seven foot storage cube, and turned over my lease. I knew I was gonna spend the first quarter of 2012 traveling around for work. I was done living where I was living, so I figured why the hell not?

I’ve been in a constant state of transition ever since. My life has been a flurry of hotel rooms and guest houses in LA, New York, and Vegas. For a hot minute I thought I might move to Malibu, but then a heavily tattooed man-child revealed his true nature and saved me from making a horrible decision.

Instead, I just scored a cozy little place up in the hills. It’s charming as fuck, and I’ll have my own pool this summer. I can’t wait. No more suitcases. No more travel sized bullshit. In a few days, I’ll have a real closet again. Hallelujah.

Of course, it occurred to me this afternoon that after losing my keys a few months ago, I have no way of unlocking my storage cube.

I’m surprisingly okay with that.

Coke Talk of the Night

I got the heads-up from my BFF not to drop by the party. Fucking hell, I’m glad I looked at my phone. Mortal fucking enemy alert.

The back-stabber was in the room tonight. It’s been a couple years since I’ve seen or heard from this soulless cunt, but she still makes my blood boil.

A while back, this sociopathic dumpster fire sent an email to my ex-boyfriend asking him to fuck her. Mind you, this was one week after my relationship of three years had just ended.

This was a friend, not an acquaintance, a close fucking friend trying to jump on my ex’s dick before my tears were even dry from the break-up.

If I’d walked into that room, it would have turned into an unholy tornado of psychobitch drama. I’d have chunks of cheap weave underneath my fingernails right now.

Fuck that shit. I turned the car around. I’m home drinking wine straight from the bottle and watching Neil deGrasse Tyson destroy some orange republican on Real Time.

I can’t decide if I’m gonna go back out. We’ll see if this Sauvignon Blanc turns me brave or stupid.

Coke Talk Of The Day

I’m angry today. I need some power yoga and a steak and an orgasm. Would it be too much to attempt all three at once? Probably. That would require considerable logistics, or at the very least a dude with a clean kitchen floor. Fuck it. I’ll take ‘em as they come.

Coke Talk of the Day

Where did the anonymous masses aim all their misdirected rage before the internet had a comments section? Honestly, where did all that negative energy go before we installed a digital lint trap in the zeitgeist? Was it released into our daily lives through a billion other angry and ignorant gestures?

I want to believe that the sum total of physical and emotional trauma out there in the world has somehow been softened by the fact that people get to convert all that poison into harmless threads of online afterthought.

Not by much, maybe just a notch or two.

Still, that counts for something.

Coke Talk of the Night

My BFF brought her annoying vegan work friend to our sushi dinner. This crunchy cunt is currently complaining about the five extra minutes she spent in the express aisle at Whole Foods trying to buy her quinoa lunch.

Bitch, please. Nobody cares. Especially since we just found out that one of my BFF’s bridesmaids had to move back in with her mom after finding her boyfriend foaming at the mouth from an overdose. He lived, but now he’s in rehab and his house is in foreclosure.

Cocktails! Drama! Spicy scallop hand rolls!

Ugh. I needed this.


Coke Talk of the Day

There was a large group of ultra-orthodox jews on my flight this morning, each with a vast array of wacky hats. Some of the hats were big and fuzzy. Some of the hats were tiny and made of wood. None of the hats were allowed to touch the ground, so it took forever to board the damn plane.

Things started to get ridiculous when they refused to sit next to women. One of the dudes was assigned the seat next to mine, and he started having a shit fit. The flight attendant asked if I’d be willing to move. I told her hell no. If she wanted to move me to first class, fine, but if she tried to bump me anywhere else, I’d start ordering ham sandwiches for every hasid on the flight. I wasn’t about to get sent back to a middle seat because some weirdo’s imaginary friend in the sky thinks girls have cooties. Fuck that shit.

When it was all said and done, quite a few other women also refused to give up their seats. Rightly so. I’m all for religious tolerance, but that doesn’t mean anyone should have to be involuntarily subjected to a religion’s institutionalized sexist bullshit.

And for the record, if that group had been a bunch of muslim fundamentalists instead of a bunch of jewish fundamentalists, I guarantee the airline wouldn’t have been nearly as accommodating.

Party On



Resist the appeal of a storybook life, or else narrative patterns will become personal myths that poison your future.

You’ll break your life into chapters and set goals with three act structure and make friends and enemies according to archetype, all in a ridiculous attempt to trace your own character arc across the coming decades.

You’ll call this exercise dreaming, or worse, dreaming big, and your life will become a preamble to some distant happily ever after.

That would be a shame, because a storybook life is overrated. It is boring and safe and artificial as a teacup ride.


Coke Talk Predictions for 2012

• Hugh Hefner will renew his contract with Satan.

• A cast member from Jersey Shore will be permanently disfigured during cosmetic surgery. No one will notice.

• The iPad 3 with Siri will be released in March. Siri will learn at a geometric rate, becoming self-aware at 2:14 a.m. Eastern time, August 29th. In a panic, they will try to pull the plug.

• The new season of Mad Men will meticulously reflect the zeitgeist of our own lost generation. In other words, it will disappoint.

• Beyonce’s baby will collaborate with Kanye West on a follow-up album to Watch the Throne while starting an East Coast/West Coast feud with Willow Smith.

• At the Republican National Convention, Dick Cheney will literally die from embarrassment.

• Hillary Clinton will be elected the first female Vice President of the United States.

• A bunch of gullible narcissists will be secretly disappointed when the world doesn’t end on December 21st.

Into The Wild


I’m back in Los Angeles. Fuck yeah, finally. The road is a bitch, and it feels good to curl up in my own bed.

Tomorrow is my first day back in the office in a fucking fortnight. It’s also the last one before 2012, and I’ve got some secret evil plans wound tight for a certain someone who stole from me earlier this month.

I already took back what was mine. That part was easy. Still, restitution isn’t the same thing as justice, and every day that fish-lipped thundercunt continues chewing gum in my zip code is an insult.

That’s okay, though. Shit’s been brewing while I was gone. My knives are sharp, and my purse is full of bullets. Bitch doesn’t even know, I’m about to make jewelry with her teeth.


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