Sitting on the train last night, a tall, posey guy in nice jeans was leaning his jutted pelvis too close to my face (to achieve maximum posure). He was also canoodling his teeeny, skinny girlfriend whose royal-blue legging-clad legs were swimming in her tall, slouchy boots. With dissheveled, stringy hair she looked like a drama geek that grew up to be "hot" according to hipsters. I note a pair of wedding bands. More canoodling. More crotches close to my face. More posing.
I think, "I bet SHE has an iPhone. Bitch...
Yeah, but she also has an eating disorder and a gay husband."
That was, literally, word-for-word my thought process. What is WRONG with me?
Friday, January 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
This is real.
The corn refiners of america approve this message: high fructose corn syrup is GREAT.
Apparently people started being too "health conscious" and "reading nutrition facts" and the corn refineries (read: places that remove nutritional value from our corn surplus so it can be liquified and used as a sweetener in... EVERYTHING) are struggling.
If you haven't been lucky enough to catch their commercials, here's a link to the "branding site" which, incidently is called sweet surprise dot com. A sweet surprise, indeed.
Well, corn refineries, I would just like you to know that I'm trumpeting your cause: I just ate fritos and canned soup for lunch. And I'd like to think I'm keeping your operations open and layoff-free with my love of gummy candies alone.
You're welcome.
Apparently people started being too "health conscious" and "reading nutrition facts" and the corn refineries (read: places that remove nutritional value from our corn surplus so it can be liquified and used as a sweetener in... EVERYTHING) are struggling.
If you haven't been lucky enough to catch their commercials, here's a link to the "branding site" which, incidently is called sweet surprise dot com. A sweet surprise, indeed.
Well, corn refineries, I would just like you to know that I'm trumpeting your cause: I just ate fritos and canned soup for lunch. And I'd like to think I'm keeping your operations open and layoff-free with my love of gummy candies alone.
You're welcome.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Laura is twitterpated.
I love the word twitterpated.
It means all lovestruck, googly-eyed and is a slightly (really, only slightly) less embarrassingly girly way to admit to being a smitten kitten. I've always loved this word. One could say I'm twitterpated with "twitterpated," but then one might be overdoing the use of the word, and I hate redundance. Unfortunately something's been putting my use of this fave word on pause; FUCKING TWITTER.
OK. I get that I wasn't on board with facebook when it first came out, but that's because I was in college and pretty annoyed with everyone in all of my classes. So I didn't want to join their "groups" and have them all in my photo-essayed life. I was on myspace. I was a party girl with flashy slideshows and emoticons and theme songs to my daily collegiate angst. What fun.
Now I've grown up, gotten over murdock's spyspace and become healthily obsessed with facebook. It's fine. Whenever I feel like it, I can update my status to say something about how stressed I am at work, or how I just realized that Nesquik spells kiuqnes backwards which means nothing, but it's still delicious. I'm OK with people occasionally having a look into my life, and am realistic about how much (little) they will care. I know that when I update my status, it will show up for a shining 15 seconds on everyone's home page, and in my 15 seconds, friends may notice what my status is, and they may even click through to my profile and respond (ugh, I wish).
What I'm not, though, is so narcissistic about my causes, my hobbies, my quipy third person descriptors, that I think these "friends" want to know what I'm doing/saying/thinking every second of the day. This is also why I so loosely maintain this blog, and why it's pretty much just ranty streams of consciousness aimed at distracting and entertaining myself only. Thanks, self. Keep up the good work.
So I'm you-know-what-ed with facebook. I can't even say it because that word I love to use to sum up love is on hold because its first half (twitter, are you keeping up?) is so annoying; in part for it's sudden proliferation, and part for how invasive it will become as a direct result of this spread. Mainly it's annoying because people are annoying, especially when they think everyone else wants to know what they think all the time.
With that, I present a makeyasayhm double whammy:
1. Should I maybe not have a blog?
(My take: So what, I'm a gigantic hypocrite. Back off.)
2. In what childhood-scarring Disney movie did my fave-o word originate?
('cause I know you won't wiki it: BAMBI!)
It means all lovestruck, googly-eyed and is a slightly (really, only slightly) less embarrassingly girly way to admit to being a smitten kitten. I've always loved this word. One could say I'm twitterpated with "twitterpated," but then one might be overdoing the use of the word, and I hate redundance. Unfortunately something's been putting my use of this fave word on pause; FUCKING TWITTER.
OK. I get that I wasn't on board with facebook when it first came out, but that's because I was in college and pretty annoyed with everyone in all of my classes. So I didn't want to join their "groups" and have them all in my photo-essayed life. I was on myspace. I was a party girl with flashy slideshows and emoticons and theme songs to my daily collegiate angst. What fun.
Now I've grown up, gotten over murdock's spyspace and become healthily obsessed with facebook. It's fine. Whenever I feel like it, I can update my status to say something about how stressed I am at work, or how I just realized that Nesquik spells kiuqnes backwards which means nothing, but it's still delicious. I'm OK with people occasionally having a look into my life, and am realistic about how much (little) they will care. I know that when I update my status, it will show up for a shining 15 seconds on everyone's home page, and in my 15 seconds, friends may notice what my status is, and they may even click through to my profile and respond (ugh, I wish).
What I'm not, though, is so narcissistic about my causes, my hobbies, my quipy third person descriptors, that I think these "friends" want to know what I'm doing/saying/thinking every second of the day. This is also why I so loosely maintain this blog, and why it's pretty much just ranty streams of consciousness aimed at distracting and entertaining myself only. Thanks, self. Keep up the good work.
So I'm you-know-what-ed with facebook. I can't even say it because that word I love to use to sum up love is on hold because its first half (twitter, are you keeping up?) is so annoying; in part for it's sudden proliferation, and part for how invasive it will become as a direct result of this spread. Mainly it's annoying because people are annoying, especially when they think everyone else wants to know what they think all the time.
With that, I present a makeyasayhm double whammy:
1. Should I maybe not have a blog?
(My take: So what, I'm a gigantic hypocrite. Back off.)
2. In what childhood-scarring Disney movie did my fave-o word originate?
('cause I know you won't wiki it: BAMBI!)
Monday, January 5, 2009
Leather and Lace
Ok, there's no leather. But I'm OB-sessed (like an all natural tampon) with these cast lace rings. I don't know if this is some weird conflict of interest, but I wrote about these joinks on julib.com a while back. I just can't get enough. I go to Masami Kelly's website like I'm visiting my husband in jail. Cast lace rings still online? Been shanked by an adversary? Phew. Seeya next week, shiny, pretty things.
It would be one thing if I had designs on buying one. But after consorting with the artist, and finding the seventy-or-so-dollar pricetag, well, it's probably not possible. As you know from my jaunts to dunkin' donuts, I neither have the funds, nor willpower, to save up for anything valuable. And if I did, I'd blow my wad on an iPhone in two shakes of Milkyway Hot Chocolate.
Jealousy doesn't look good on anyone, and envy's one of the seven deadly sins. But, come on. Who am I hurting by just plain WANTING SHIT? And if it's the obvious answer (noone but myself) do you think another genius bailout--wherein checks are sent to restraint-lacking shoppers--is in the works so I can put myself out of my misery?
Le sigh. I just looked at the rings again.
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