Internet, it is 2:14 a.m. and I am looking at this issue of InStyle like I would look at some dude I’d been, uh, hanging out with for a little while but who still insisted on burping every other second and pinching my ass when I squeezed past him to get the beer he demanded I go fetch because the game was on and he couldn’t bear to remove his hands from the wasteband waistband…
Internet, I feel like I have voluntarily cast myself into the desert and am not even halfway across the first dune. The thing is, the desert looked completely walkable at first glance, but now I realize that every step takes extra effort because I’m WALKING ON FREAKING STUPID SAND. I am, of course, being overly metaphorical here in my attempt to describe what it’s like to realize that I am only 80 pages in to…
All right, you beautiful bastiches, let’s get this crazy train rolling again. I’ve had six hours of sleep and I am ready to muffpunch the universe. I mean read this magazine. Where were we? Oh yes, page 50. OH FUCK, THERE ARE WEREWOLVES. Hang on while I make a pot of incredibly strong coffee to help me cope. … Okay, that’s better. Sheesus, magazine, werewolves? Because vampires are so played out? Teen Wolf, Taylor Lautner,…
One of the fun things about moving is the slow and steady trickle of the former tenant’s mail that you get to receive for a few months (or, if you’re super fortunate, years). When I moved into this house, I suddenly became the recipient of fashion catalogs from stores I literally had never even heard of, all of which were peddling stretchy, layery black things for exorbitant amounts of money. My house’s previous occupant was…
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