Annals

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Due to an unfortunate spelling of the word “Annals” on her superhero application, Jessica was given the power to travel through time, but only while she was taking it up the ass.

 

Swollen and fried.

I woke up today with a mouth full of dryer lint and breakfast sausages for fingers. Everything coming out of my body is the wrong color, and I’m sore in parts that I don’t remember using.

I’m not complaining — after all, you can’t party for six straight days in Mexico without consequences. This is totally expected.

Whenever I go on vacation, I tell everyone that I get back a day later than I really do. As far as my friends are concerned, I’m still incommunicado.

No one gets to see me when I’m paying the tab on my party karma.

Coke Talk of the Day

I don’t believe in role models, I don’t have any heroes, and I treat fame like it’s a fucking venereal disease. Ask anyone in this town with real money or power, and they’ll whisper a dirty little truth — privacy has a higher street value than fame.

Aside from a few superficial novelties, being famous offers little in the way of real benefit. Notoriety is just a marketing tool, and at the end of the day if you’re not selling anything that makes the world a better place, then you’re just clogging up the drain.

I’m not talking about girls with an overt talent. Certain professions come packaged with fame, and if you’re a gifted artist then good luck and go with god. I’m talking about scene-queens, “it” girls, and fameballs who crave any hollow attention that can be found in front of a lens.

Whenever I see a new fame-hungry girl pop onto the scene, my emotional reflex is pity. It’s like watching somebody slam heroin for the first time. No matter how happy they look, you know they’re totally fucked.

My next instinct is to peer through the heat, look past the pretty, and find out who the real genius is behind the style. For every attention whore, there is always a smarter, more talented girl quietly making the fame possible — Audrey Kitching has Evey Rothstein, Cory Kennedy has Charlotte Ronson, and Julia Allison has David Karp.

When it comes time to get down and dirty, the girl-behind-the-girl is always the one you want to party with. They’ve got better stories, better drugs, and better things to do. These are bitches who manipulate fame like carnival fire-breathers, and yet they respect the value of personal privacy.

And don’t get me wrong — I’m not a hater. Audrey, Cory, and Julia are just off-the-top-of-my-head examples. I find them entertaining as hell, and I have nothing bad to say about any of them. Audrey seems to have parlayed some junior-level starfucking into a pretty decent gig, Cory is a total sweetheart, and I think Julia will eventually find her true path by settling down with a bald Jewish lawyer and adopting a Chinese baby in the series finale.

My larger point is simple. In an era where style is substance in and of itself, check your sources before you get enamored with the window display.

Don’t confuse the mannequins for their maker.

Hourglass

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I want this hourglass next to my bed for when I hook up. I’d flip it over, cackle like the wicked witch and say, “this is how long you have to go down on me before I’ll cum!”

Using “you’re beautiful” as an excuse

thedame:

Im a stripper right, and I find often when I suggest to a customer that we go for a private dance together and they have a reason why they dont want to go, they always throw in this line: “but youre very beautiful, im sorry, I just ”.

I know Im beautiful thank you, dont tell it to me like its meant to make me feel better, this shows me you assume all woman use acknowledgement as fuel to exist. I dont. Dont tell me Im beautiful like its gonna make everything alright.

I dont know, Im not explaining it right, but I find it sort of condescending when guys use that line as a sort of a sympathetic pat on the bat.

Im not sure what my underlying problem with it is, but when I figure it out, I’ll post a more concise explanation…

All right, girl. This one is easy.

Your underlying problem has to do with reflective vs. deflective patterns of mitigated speech and a glitch in the artificial power dynamic that exists in a strip club.

The entire paradigm in the club is built around a gender role reversal where women are the aggressors, and men are the ones approached. When men suddenly find themselves in the unusual position where they have to verbally reject a woman, they simply don’t have the communication skills to do it properly.

Women are trained from puberty to recognize that a compliment paired with rejection reeks of condescension. It’s our passive-aggressive weapon-of-choice when we want to deliberately bruise a male ego or be catty to another girl.

Back in high school, when we wanted to show a boy mercy, we very quickly learned to deliver deflective mitigated rejections such as “I’m very flattered, but I’m not available,” instead of reflective mitigated rejections such as “you’re a great friend, but I just don’t like you that way.”

Thing is, guys never learned this. They aren’t the ones with a decade’s worth of experience being hit on, and they simply don’t know any better. When they tell you “you’re beautiful, but no thank you,” they’re attempting to deliver a mitigated rejection, but it’s reflective instead of deflective.

It’s a tiny reversed version of “I like you as a friend,” and just like a teenage girl who doesn’t know any better, they honestly think they’re being merciful when they tell you you’re beautiful.

You brain recognizes it as condescension, but it’s not.

That’s why it bugs you.

You just gotta remind yourself that it’s truly innocent when the boys say “you’re beautiful, but no thanks.” They’re essentially just doing the best they can.

Don’t take that shit from a girl, though.

Bitches know better.

Coke Talk of the Day

Every time I go to the mall at Century City, I make it a point to park in those pink “Expectant Mother” spaces.

Fuck that ridiculous policy — fuck any stupid rule enacted by pant-suit wearing corporate trolls, enforced by mouth-breathing mall cops, and obeyed by mini-van driving stepford wives.

If I’m lucky, on my short walk to the escalator I’ll catch a sneer from some cunty nag with a double-wide stroller. Nothing makes me happier than beaming back a curled-up smile that says, “No, I’m not the least bit expectant, and fuck you for asking.”

But today — oh, my — today was delicious. As I hopped out of my car, an angry soccer mom waddled over. She wagged a chubby little finger at me and yelled out, “That spot is for pregnant women only!”

Without missing a beat, I shot back, “My abortion isn’t until this weekend, so fuck off.”

Stopped her dead in her tracks. It was beautiful.

Lady Gaga

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Those of you who know Andy Kaufman will understand that I’m paying Lady Gaga the highest of compliments.

Ennui

Let it roll past your lips — ennui.

Doesn’t it feel good? The word itself is like a tiny cure for the very mood it defines.

Ennui — like Daft Punk, Coco Chanel, and the croissant — is one of those things that the French really nailed. It’s as though mere boredom were too pedestrian, so they defined an existential state that encompasses philosophical apathy and poised detachment.

Ennui is reserved for those with either stunning beauty, exceptional intelligence, or obscene wealth. Literature professors suffer ennui. Runway models suffer ennui. The single mom working the drive-thru window? Well, that bitch is just depressed.

Since I’m about halfway between runway model and fast-food employee, I can go either way. Sometimes I’m just bored and depressed, but sometimes that shit grows hairy armpits and starts smoking clove cigarettes.

Like now, for instance. I’ve got some serious ennui goin’ on.

Bored with sex. Bored with drugs. Bored with friends. I still love all three, but I just don’t feel like getting out of (or into) bed for any of them.

Nothing gives me a thrill at the moment.

It’s a bizarre thing, because I know intellectually that I lead a charmed life. Even emotionally I feel like things are fine. Still, I’m completely numb, as if the knife edge of my pain and pleasure is dull from repeated use.

No orgasms. No head rush. No laughter — and the odd thing is that I’m not upset about it. There are no tears either.

Oh well, it’ll pass soon enough. The fact that I can sit down and write anything at all means I’m coming out of it. I’ll just ride out the holiday weekend with a fake smile, and by this time next week I’ll back on the front lines of all the glitter and madness.

Dear Crazy Bitch,

Stop telling people that you “fell down some stairs.”

You’re a walking Lifetime movie-of-the-week cliche. Everyone knows that “falling down some stairs” is hackneyed code for domestic violence.

If I actually fell down some stairs, I’d say the bruises were from getting fucked on train tracks just so people wouldn’t think I was getting slapped around.

You are deliberately telegraphing the fact that he beats you because you’re a whacked-out cunt that savors drama and thrives on chaos.

God bless and get the hell out of my life.

Chloe Bowie

 

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It’s a little known fact that in 1985, David Bowie’s younger sister Chloe invented a glam-rock designer drug called glowcaine®.

Dubbed “the other new coke,” glowcaine® was a commercial failure due to limited market penetration and “flamboyant” side effects.

Chloe eventually made a small fortune with her line of neon straws.

 

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