4 Reasons Child Stars Should be Made Illegal

It’s obvious that a new crop of  deranged child stars is at its most batshit insane right now, what with Justin Bieber acting like a dick, Amanda Bynes’s sad but hilarious Twitter feuds, and the never-ending saga of Lindsay Lohan and her faithful crack pipe. So why do parents (or legal guardians if they’re, you know, orphans) keep schlepping their kids to and from auditions, trying to get them inducted into the cult that is Disney?

Come play with us, Danny. Forever and ever.

I can’t even begin to delve into the reasons why parents are so obsessed with cementing their kid into an industry where they’ll probably be offered drugs by the age of 10, but I do have a few reasons (read: 4) why child stars should be made illegal.

Girl, I’ll take you on a journey.

1) Child stars often morph into total jerks.

It’s true. No matter what you Beliebers want to belieb, your beloved Bieber is a huge rhymes-with-punt.

Seriously, if I could sucker punch this bitch…

As a Canadian, I used to be super proud of his accomplishments. I would impress my American pals with the fun trivia that the mighty Biebs grew up in a town a mere 2.5 hours away from mine.

I know, I know, calm the fuck down. The Biebs and I are just mad tight, bro.

I forgave him for his gopher-meets-Ellen-Degeneres haircut. I forgave him for “Baby.” I forgave him for “Never Say Never.” I forgave him for literally all of his shitty music, simply because he’s a beaver-head. (In both senses of the word).

Being a child star, however, has completely warped his sense of right and wrong, good and evil, normal and lesbian-esque hair. And he’s not the only one. People constantly cater to him and fluff his ego, turning him into a Barbara Streisand-level diva.

Something about that perm destroys her believability.

I know that if he’d become famous when he was 25, 30, 35, etc. he might have turned out the same way. But he’s still a jerk and should therefore be forced to live on a deserted island with a 1997-era Jeff Goldblum listening to this for 10 years:

A harsh but just punishment.

2) Child stars make everyone else feel like pedophiles.

Teenaged celebrities are sexualized. There’s nothing else to it. It’s like someone read Lolita and said, “Oh man, wouldn’t it be great if we made this a real thing?”

Maybe for fans of statutory rape.

Example: Britney Spears was 16 when she did this Pepsi commercial:

I’m not saying that Britney shouldn’t have been famous, but her entire brand was focused on making money off of her jailbait status. If you haven’t seen her “Joy of Pepsi” commercial, you might have missed that they put  middle-aged politician, Bob Dole, in at the end. He’s watching the commercial with his dog. The dog, in a fit of heated arousal due to Brit’s fierce moves, starts to bark. The Dole-ightful Bob looks over and says, smirking: “Easy, boy.”

They were literally winking at the fact that Britney Spears was untouchable.

That’s pop music, yeah, fo sho, I get that, but it still doesn’t change the fact that they threw this kid to Viagara-popping sharks without a life jacket.


And don’t even think that mini celeb boys aren’t involved. I feel weird thinking that the twinks from One Direction are good looking and they’re my age. It just feels like cradle robbing. I will take this moment to declare that I will forever resist any cougar tendencies that may spring up in my depraved mind.


What are they popping? A cherry?

3. Watching a child star fall apart is like being a spectator at the Hunger Games.


All these photos come out like:


And everyone has a field day, reacting with INTENSE schadenfreude.

Yeah, it’s funny. It’s fucking hilarious — it just shouldn’t be. They pass out, get caught with prostitutes/drugs/Charlie Sheen and everyone’s like:


Meanwhile, all those washed up celebs are experiencing legal action and withdrawal symptoms.

Just because they’re famous doesn’t mean they don’t have withdrawal symptoms. 

Celebrities: They’re just like us!

These people are PEOPLE, even if they do look like a Sun Chip left out in the rain for some time (ahem, Lindsay Lohan). I’m definitely guilty of this, too. I follow Amanda Bynes’s downfall like it’s news of the rapture.

After each breakdown, child stars basically turn to the world, saying:

Unfortunately, as a society that gets bored pretty easily, we’re just like:

It truly is like the Hunger Games. We watch children battle it out in a global arena until only one is left standing. And that is Justin Timberlake.

He just watched Amanda Bynes’s twerking video.

4. We can make children using CGI now!

Why do we need real kids when we can computer animate them?

Look how realistic. Look at the tiny human:

It’s so authentic!

These CGI babies won’t develop jerkwad attitudes OR drug problems! (No promises on avoiding becoming a sexualized object. There are some fabulously strange people out there).

They might bite, though.

Child stars are sources of joy and laughter and whatnot, but what happens after they lose their cuteness and find out that the world doesn’t want them anymore?

A whole lot of horses***, that’s what happens.

All I can say is, thank God for Justin Timberlake.

Desperation, or that time I almost worked at a gas station

As a university student, I’m constantly told that finding a job is flat fucking impossible, that even McDonald’s requires a BA, and that I’ll never achieve any level of success unless I release a sex-tape featuring something weird, like people in mascot costumes or Angelina Jolie.

But we all know what that would look like.

Just call Brazzers, because my body is READY.

Yeah, I doubt anyone would be fighting to buy that shit.

Anyways, like every university student (and I’m sure no one will argue with me) I was freaking the FUCK OUT as classes ended this spring. I didn’t know where I’d be working, how I’d get some decent life skills on my resume, or basically how I’d be able to avoid becoming a nanny for rest of my life.

I also wanted some mothafuckin’ DOUGH.

Awww yeah. Just keep doing it niiiiice and slow. That’s the stuff.

By mid-April, I was panicking so hard it was like someone had told me I had to go into the Witness Protection Program to escape a murderer who liked to make his victims watch every season of ‘Big Bang Theory’ before killing them.


It was not a pretty picture.

Then finally, on a warm spring afternoon, I got a phone call- a single glorious phone call.

It was from a Marketing & PR Agency and they wanted to interview me for a summer student position!


My insides got all warm and shit. I must have looked like this:

Easy, breezy, beautiful.

I went in for the interview. All seemed well. They were going to send me out to different marketing events and I’d form useful connections that would advance me forward in my otherwise bleak career!


So, the company invited me back for an orientation. They told me they’d send me to one of their events so that I could get a feel for what the job would be like, and I learn and observe, etc., etc.

I put on my fanciest blazer (aka my mom’s, cause I don’t own that shit) and strut into the office on my first day like I was Jay fuckin’ Z. 

Just me on a weekday.

They gave me a Google Map printout and told me it would take me to the event. I was all pumped up on adrenaline and first impressions and jumped right in my car, speeding towards my destination with all the horsepower my lil’ Ford could muster.

Imagine my surprise when the secret destination turned out to be a goddamn gas station.

Yeah, that’s right. They sent me to an Esso in the middle of buttfuck nowhere to sell car wax.

THAT was their big event. Selling car wax at a gas station. And that car wax company was their only client.

The guy I was working with set up a rickety plastic table and put what must’ve been two dozen boxes of the stupid frickin’ car wax on top, then proceeded to harass people as they pumped their gas by insisting that they NEEDED the car wax- their cars were simply worthless without it.

I was immediately like:

First of all, why would they send ME, someone who clearly knows NOTHING about car wax, to a country gas station where everyone is either a trucker or a farmer- those guys have a love affair with their automobiles for chrissake.

Did I mention that they paid based SOLELY on commission?

How the fuck would I sell enough car wax to supplement my sexy swaggin’ social life?*

*More accurate representation.

Either way, I knew that I wasn’t passionate enough about auto detailing to make any sort of dough.


So…I left the job- and thank God I did!

A couple weeks later, I got another phone call telling me I’d been offered an Editorial/Social Media Internship at one of the country’s top online publications- Trend Hunter.

Basically, I get to spend my days finding cool stuff around the interwebz, writing about them, and marketing them via social media.

Not a bad gig.


I love it so far, but if I hadn’t left my other job when I did, I might’ve been roped into an inescapable contract and I wouldn’t have been able to work at Trend Hunter at all.

So, to all you uni students or recent graduates out there who are scared that you’ll never find a job that you enjoy or, you know, just general employment, know this: there is hope.

As much as profs, parents, and satanic statisticians like to freak us out, there are still jobs out there. You don’t have to work the lamest, most back-breaking, soul-crushing job just because you think there isn’t anything else out there- that’s being defeatist, and mama don’t like no negative nancies! 

So here are my final words to you:


If you want to check out Trend Hunter, you can do so here.

My portfolio, filled with fun lil’ articles about awesome new stuff can be found here.

Is my childhood showing?

It might be all the psychology classes I’m taking, or it could just be that there’s a tiny little elf-creature taking over my soul, but I feel like I’m regressing back into a state of child-like dependency.


I’ve been doing some things lately that only a five year-old who had just guzzled about a dozen sugar straws would do.


Also, I’ve started dancing like this:


Wait, that’s not necessarily child-like, you say?
Lots of people dance like chubby, post-ice-cream-binge kids?


Anyways, I’ve also started collecting stuffed animals. And this is really weird for me. Did those italics get through to you? REALLY WEIRD.

Because I was one of those kids who stuck up their nose at the idea of cuddling with a plush friend when sad, or having a tea party with Mr. Tinkles the Small-Bladdered Bunny. I just didn’t get the point. Why play with a stuffed animal that is clearly fake, when you could create things using your imagination that were 10x more fun!

So then I’d go outside and pretend to be a forensics specialist and make my friends give me blood samples so I could look at them under my microscope.

I was eight.

Did I mention that I wouldn’t let my friends touch their own blood samples (which I kept between two slides, all professional and shit), because I didn’t want to contaminate them?

I was all like:

It seriously took me about 10 years to realize that science is really hard and stupid. Thanks childhood fantasies. (Of the non-sexual nature. Not that I had the other kind, but you know, kids will be kids and stuff and I think I’ve gone too far.)



I just thought that playing with stuffed animals and Barbies was a sign of weakness. I pretty much wrote people off if they liked those things. I remember meeting one chick when I was about 10 at some family friend’s party and she started telling me all about her Beanie Baby collection. I just remember thinking:

“I can’t be friends with this bitch.”

I had just learned the B word.


I was also (and still kind of am, I won’t lie to you, internet mole people) deathly afraid of dolls. Any kind of doll, but Porcelain China Dolls were the fucking creepiest m****f*****s ever to exist. EVER.

Aaaaaaand thanks to my parents, I had two of them sitting on my dresser across from my bed, watching me sleep every night. And every night, I made my dad keep an eye on them until I fell asleep, so, you know, they wouldn’t shank me well I slept.

If you are not scared of this, I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.

Why didn’t I just get rid of them?


I actually had some pretty good logic, for an eight year old.

I didn’t want to make them mad. 

Tell me this doesn’t want to make you cry and urinate simultaneously.

My parents got pretty tired of this by the time I was 10 (…or 11), and my dad bit one of them on the head and then dropped her on the floor so that I could see how fake she was and not at all under the murderous rage of a demon spirit.

It didn’t help.


I was literally sobbing. SOBBING.

I truly believed that my dad would be killed for his flagrant disregard for the porcelain evilness of my dolls.

Me. Every night. Until puberty.

So you understand that my new interest in stuffed animals is a big step forward.

I don’t think they’re stupid and pointless anymore, or a sign of weakness. But dolls are still f******* scary and should not be sold anywhere because children should not be exposed to such horror.



The eyes. It’s all in the eyes.

Yeah. That’s right. What you just felt was your heart expanding with more love than even Beyonce and Jay-Z have for each other.

And that’s saying a lot.

The other thing I’ve been doing a lot of is watching children’s movies.

Like, a lot.

Every time I’m hungover, I reach for (/torrent) my copy of (/download of) Shrek or Shrek 2, or Scooby-Doo, or Scooby-Doo 2, or The Little Mermaid, or The Little Mermaid 2, and, well, you get the picture.

One of my friends came into my room while I was watching Beauty and the Beast, and caught me laughing hysterically at Gaston’s douchey antics.

He looked pretty disgusted and confused and immediately left, but I didn’t care, I was in a state of cartoon ecstasy.

What I looked like:

What was going on on-screen:

I think I may have over-reacted.
Or maybe I was just hungover.

Or maybe Gaston is just the funniest b**** this side of California. (I don’t know what that means, but you can figure it out yourself, you lazy piece of rotting diaper.)

I also recently watched Shrek, which I still maintain is one of the funniest movies ever made this side of California.

Oh, donkey, you noble rascally steed, you!

After I watched it for probably the 60th time, I found my school journal from 2nd grade. One of my entries went like this (and this is verbatim):

“On the weekend, I went to see Shrek. It was so funny. Donkey said: “That is a nice boulder” and “In the morning I’m making waffles,” and then he married a dragon. It was so funny. And Shrek burped a lot and said “Better out than in” and Fiona made a bird explode with her voice which was so funny. It was the best weekend ever because I saw Shrek.”

Any weekend is the best weekend when Shrek is involved.

I had to face the conclusion that I have not changed at all since I was seven years-old. It was a hard fact to face, but… Shrek. 

I’m pretty sure that this is my way of coping with the adult world into which I’ve been so unceremoniously thrown, like a poor 18 year-old heroin addict into prostitution.

I’ve got Peter Pan syndrome, man!

And I think most of us do, and it just manifests itself in different ways.

Some people get drunk off their asses every night and refuse to do work.

Others have panic attacks that lead to chronic chocolate-eating regarding their futures.

Me? I just act like a child.

And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.

Until I have to get a job and figure my shit out and try to become a contributing member of society. But until then, I think holding onto my child-like excitement is a good thing. So go autoerotically asphyxiate yourself if you disagree.

Because children are so optimistic and imaginative- it’s a shame that most of us lose that as we get older.

As Pablo Picasso said:

Some of you might be like: “Kids are stupid and don’t know anything, why would I ever want to be like them?”

Because they get to live in any world they want to. Anything they create inside their heads is real to them. They aren’t confined by the physical limitations of our world. They can be a witch one day, a superhero the next. They can hide under the covers from the monster they know is lurking under their bed, or become convinced that their house is haunted. They can be popstars, explorers, and secret agents. They can be anything they want, and it’s all real to them.

It’s sad that adults lose this deep imagination, but I guess it’s a natural developmental progression. But I, for one, am going to make sure that I don’t lose hold of it completely.

Because what’s the point of growing up if you can’t dream?

And the Oscar goes to…Anne Hathaway’s Nipples?

So… last night was weird.

And no, I’m not apologizing for a mistaken, drunken, sexual encounter that’s forcing us to re-evaluate our relationship as platonic friends, leaving us like:

No, internet. As much as I like you as a friend, it would never work. For you are not a sentient being.

No, the Academy Awards were last night.

…And they were weird.

More specifically, I found four weird things both during and after the the Oscars. Weirder things than sexing up a non-sentient being. Or an octogenarian.


So here we go.

My list of the four weirdest things that happened last night during the Oscars.

1. Need I say it? They were right there in front of our eyes, piercing into our very souls with their razor-sharp points for 2 and half hours.

Anne Hathaway’s nipples.

Look at them:

Anne Hathaway blog photo 1



Anne Hathaway Oscar Boobs

That is some serious Kim Possible triangle-boob going on .



Don’t get me wrong. I think Anne Hathaway is a beautiful woman with a somewhat melodramatic personality and a big heart. However, I don’t understand why she decided to shove a couple of toothpicks into her dress before Hollywood’s biggest night.

Seriously. You could carve an ice sculpture with those things.

YAY! Thanks, boobs!


My first reaction was to wonder whether they shot lasers or something. Because to me, that’s really the only reason to walk the red carpet with what look like inverted pizza slices shoved down the front of your dress. Complete with pepperoni.

It would’ve been a lot cooler if Anne (or “Annie,” as her friends call her) had done something like this:

Oh, no! Indiana Anne!

Oh, no! Indiana Anne!

Look at that photo and go: “Pew! Pew!” and tell me you don’t enjoy it.

Congratulations on winning Best Supporting Actress, Ms. Hathaway!

But next time, consider wearing a bra?

2) The second weird thing I’ve found regarding ze Oscahs has to do with the backlash Seth MacFarlane has been receiving from the internets. Especially regarding the “We Saw Your Boobs” song.

I get it. The song was immature and in bad taste. BUT, it was in the context of a joke Seth was making about his being the worst Oscar host ever. He literally asked William Shatner From the Future: “What do I do wrong tonight? Why am I the worst Oscar host in history?” W.S.F.T.F. then shows him a video performance of the criminally immature, “We Saw Your Boobs.”

He was literally performing the song with the knowledge that it was the worst thing ever to happen on the Oscar stage. 

If you watch Family Guy, you know that MacFar-Far has a very self-deprecating sense of humour, so this song should not have come as a surprise. And you know, some good has come of the song. Namely, pointing out that we haven’t seen Jennifer Lawrence’s boobs at all! That’s my girl! (I really like her, if you didn’t get that because you’re illiterate or immune to italics or something.)

Three cheers for feminism!

I totally understand that Seth MacFairyFeet’s humour isn’t for everyone. I grew up in a house where 2/5 people absolutely hated Family Guy, because they believed it to consist of “disgusting” and “stupid” humour.

But whether you love the show or not, no one should have been taken aback by the offensive jokes. I mean, c’mon. This is the guy who made a song about Prom Dumpster Babies.

Prom fucking dumpster babies.

They even swing their umbilical cords like canes. Like fetal Gene Kellys. 

So was it any surprise that he made sexist, bulimia, and domestic abuse jokes throughout the course of the show?

No. Not it was not. 

People have every right to feel uncomfortable about the jokes- that’s the point.

But what I find weird is that everyone’s acting all surprised and shit like: “OHHHHHHH NOOOOOO. HE WENT THERE!”

Raven was especially shocked.

But Hollywood, you knew what you were getting yourself into.

That’s just Seth!

And dayuuuuum, is he ever fine.

3. It seems everyone has also noticed this weirdness. What was up with all the long-haired, white-blonde men winning awards? Does it have to do with some kind of cult?

(Sorry for that, it sounded like a fucking awful beginning to a stand-up routine).



Exhibits A through Weirdly Attractive.

Now compare:


I have a feeling that these men were also taking what was theirs with fire and blood.

(If you didn’t understand that joke because you don’t watch GOT, then YOU ARE NOT WORTH MY TIME).

I also have a feeling that one question still remains unanswered for these men:

“I have my oscar, but…”


4. This part of the night really shocked me. And that would be Tarantino’s douchiest Oscar speech ever.

“I actually think that like…. if people are knowing my movies 30 or 50 years from now it’s gonna be because of the characters that I created, and I really only got one chance to get it right. I have to cast the right people to make those characters come alive and hope they live a long time… and boy, this time did I do it.”

King of the Sewer Douches

Also that he was coked out of his mind.

He did give a little extra credit to the cast of Django, but really, he only showed a billion people watching worldwide that he’s really into himself.

Once again, I would like to state that I’m a HUGE Tarantino fan. I love his films, and I do think he’s a genius and one of the most (if not THE most) innovative filmmaker of our time.


HOWEVER, that doesn’t mean you get to squash everyone’s delicate feelings with your Range Rover-sized douchebaggery.

Daniel Day-Lewis, one of the biggest names in Hollywood, was much more gracious in accepting his award. So was Anne of the Arching Areolas.

C’mon, Tarantino, I love your movies. Don’t ruin this for me.



So there you have it. Four opinions regarding the Oscars that you probably disagree with. I expect many an equally-opinionated comment/ fiery e-mail.

Actually, I’m down for both! 😀 But let’s keep swearing to a maximum, shall we?

The Oscars, for all their faults last night, were still PRETTY good. Better than the Anne Hathaway/James Franco fiasco of a couple years ago.

I could EAT the awkwardness.


All I’m gonna say is…


You want a show that will appeal to everyone? Pick those hilarious ladies and EVERYONE WILL LOVE IT. There would be no sexism, the jabs at the actors would be tasteful, and goddammit, wouldn’t I love to go to an after-party hosted by the two of them.

And you know what else?


HEAR ME OUT: Valentine’s Day is the Best Day of the Year


Unless you’re a Jehovah’s Witness, (which I completely respect, but I’m really sad that you don’t get birthdays because they’re the best and everyone treats you like a supreme War Lord), you know that Valentine’s Day is around the corner.

And by around the corner, I mean in about T-3 hours from the time I’m writing this.

But you know what?

I’m excited.

Because Valentine’s Day is the best day of the year.


“She doesn’t know anything, I’m single, Valentine’s Day is 24 hours of reminders of my sexual inactivityyyyyyy!”

Cry me a river.


So listen up, my pets, as I explain to you why February 14th is the fuckin’ bomb.

Now, all you dopes in relationships don’t get to say that this is the best day of the year. Because you have other days where you can be all lovey-dovey, like anniversaries of the first time you farted in front of each other or something. I dunno what you people do.

And on Valentine’s Day, you know exactly what to expect:

Or, if you don’t live in a Nicholas Sparks movie, this:

Cue the Marvin Gaye music.


Couples: You might think that you have an awesome day. You might think that for the two of you, in your hazy love nest of sexual healing, it don’t get much better than February Fuckin’ Fourteenth.

You, my fair Kims and Kanyes, are flat fucking wrong.


Us single people have got it SO much better.

For instance, Valentine’s Day is the one day a year where I can buy five pounds of chocolate from the Shopper’s Drugmart without the cashier asking me: “Do you want Tampax with that?” 

Fuck you, Judgmental Cashier Lady, I’m not “riding the crimson wave”, I’m just SAD AND LONELY.

But it’s okay to be sad and lonely on Valentine’s Day. THAT’S THE POINT.

So no one asks you why you’re buying enough chocolate and candy to stock a bomb shelter for six months. They just give you a knowing look that says:
“Honey, I getchu. Do what you need to do.”

And they leave you in peace.


But wait- it gets better!

Valentine’s Day is the only day of the year on which a single person, such as myself and probably 90% of people reading this blog, can march into a restaurant at 11am and demand alcohol.

The last time I tried to do this was on a nameless day in January, and the waitress responded with a: “Starting early, are we?” And a smirk. A goddamn smirk. Grins I can abide, even laughter I can tolerate, but a fucking smirk? A smirk means she’s laughing at you ON THE INSIDE.




But on Valentine’s Day, no one smirks at you, nononono.

They bring you alcohol. They smile at you as if to say: “You poor lonely soul, drinking alone on Valentine’s Day.” They comfort you. They might even tell you the drink’s on the house.

Awww, thanks house!

But in all seriousness, Valentine’s Day rules.

I can get day-drunk simply because I don’t have a boyfriend. On any other day, people would call you a whiny bitch. Or an alcoholic. But on V-Day, it’s just doing what you’re s’posed ta. 

A lot of my single friends will also treat themselves to stuff a boyfriend/girlfriend would never ever EVER buy them.

Every Valentine’s Day, at least one of my single friends will come up to me and say: “I just felt so bad about being alone today, so I went shopping and bought this $400 outfit from Mendocino, and then I had to go to Victoria’s Secret, because what if I do get a boyfriend, I mean, I don’t want him to see me in granny panties, you know? ”

First of all, I understand about the granny panties- that shit could be embarrassing. And saggy.

But the main point is, you think your boyfriend (slash girlfriend) would spent four hundred dollars on an outfit for you, just because it’s a Hallmark Holiday?? 


No. No he would not. You are a much better boyfriend (or girlfriend) to yourself than anyone ever could be.

And Valentine’s Day gives you the perfect excuse to pamper yourself like the perfect boyfriend/girlfriend would!

If this is news to you, then get your head of your ass, and realize that real people are not as thoughtful as fictional characters.

But you know who is? You areTo yourself.


And bitch. Bitch up a storm.

Because V-Day, once again, is the ONLY DAY OF THE YEAR that allows for this.

You and your friends can bitch about being single for hours. Literally. And no one will judge you. Because it’s sad to be alone on Valentine’s Day.

This is totally acceptable.

And all your friends can sit in a lil’ old circle like in kindergarten and talk about how one day you’ll get married in a mothafuckin’ castle, and you’ll leave on a mothafuckin’ horse, and it’ll be with the Old Spice Guy, because he’s the best mothafucka around, and you’ll drink mimosas and fondle each other in the Caribbean.

even his abs are smiling at me

And no one will tell you otherwise. No one will say: “That’s completely stupid and dumb and you should go drown yourself in a pool of cat urine and you’re going to end up alone if you maintain such high expectations.”

They’ll say: “If that’s what you want, girl, you should go for it. Dream big, and it’ll happen. I know it will. And you know why? Because you’re a nice person.

They’ll probably be drunk.

So if you’re feeling the Valentine’s Day Blues this year, stop it you stupid, horny jerk. 

Because V-Day is the most wonderful time of the year!

I know that my Valentine’s Day will probably end up like this:

And I’m totally alright with that. Because it’s going to be a fucking awesome day where I can drink and wallow in self-pity and bitch about men with my friends.

I can also treat myself to a little cheese, even though I’m lactose intolerant 😉


Because that’s what Valentine’s Day is all about when you’re single.

Treating yourself. (Even if it causes stomach pains.)

Trust me, one day you’ll experience a Valentine’s Day filled to the brim with awkward sexual encounters and professions of everlasting love. But until then, some words of advice:


Don’t feel guilty about feeling lonely and shit on Valentine’s Day- embrace it.

Love it tenderly. 

Love it to the sensual melody of Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get it On

Because at the end of the day, you won’t be lonely forever. So this is the one time in your life when you can be completely self-absorbed and not give a shit about other people (unless you want to give a shit, in which case, shit away, sir).

Now, for the male counterparts in the couplings out there, some words of advice from one Tenacious D:


For all us single people out there- HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY. Happy drunken bitching, cheese-eating, shopping-spreeing, exploitation-of-loneliness day to you all! 

And a Happy New Year!

I’m afraid I might be one of THOSE drunk people…

Until recently, I’d always prided myself on being one of those people who never did anything remarkably stupid while drunk. I’d wake up the morning after a party, grab a cup of black coffee, and laugh at the new and hilarious ways my friends had managed to humiliate themselves the night before.

I was really fucking smug about it. 

I would sit there and listen to their stories, thinking:

Little did I know that the tables were about to turn. In a big way. No they weren’t just going to turn, they were going to fucking shatter into a million little splinters and stab me right in the dignity.

The realization came to me after a party one night which ended with me racing through the underground tunnels at my school pretending to be an airplane. I called one of my friends, referred to as Elektra in one of my previous posts, but for today we’ll just call her The Face That Launched A Thousand Ships, and she came down to find me running through the tunnels with my arms spread wide going: “VROOOOOOOOM!”

That’s not even the noise that an airplane makes. Jesus. 

She tried to get me home, but I was not having it.

And that was only the beginning.

Since that night, I’ve developed such embarrassing drunken habits that I’d make the whitest of the White Girl Wasteds jealous. Not to mention the entire cast of Jersey Shore:



For one thing, I’ve started doing this thing where I try to suck on whoever’s face is nearest like some weird sea slug that just doesn’t understand social boundaries. Once I had a few drinks in me, I’d run around the party like a rabid dog in heat, basically screaming:

No one is safe.

Some of my friends would come up to me the next day and quietly pull me aside, saying: “Hey, man, this is kind of awkward, but at that party last night, you tried to make out with me… and with my boyfriend…”


I was on a Vodka Cloud of Love and I wanted to share my emotions with everyone because internalizing your feelings is bad for your heart. 


And a big heart.

So I’ve been trying to kick that lil’ habit to avoid the inevitable awkwardness that it brings about, but I guess that while I was doing that, I failed to notice another little tendency creeping into my behaviour.

I’m a photo ruiner. I ruin people’s photos.

Let me explain.

This morning I woke up in a Bed of Pain feeling like my stomach was going to capsize and my head was going to explode. I didn’t really remember anything about last night, only that I almost made it to midnight before several of my friends had to put me to bed. I’m like a little kid that desperately wants to stay up until 12 on New Year’s Eve but can never make it, no matter how hard she tries.

Anyways, later in the day, photos began to be posted on Facebook. And that is when I realized.

I am an embarrassment to the human race and an example for you all of everything you should avoid becoming.

For example:

Rachel is unimpressed with my antics.

Rachel is unimpressed with my antics.

So you see, I run around and make everyone’s night significantly less attractive using skills I picked up from watching Rosie O’Donnell as a kid.

Let’s look at another one, shall we?


Now, let’s take a second here. Note the weird, drooling mouth, the half-shut eyes, and, oh yeah, the vodka cooler shoved down my dress.

Why would I take a picture of this? Why would I put the vodka cooler in that strange location? That’s not where it’s supposed to go. I know this. Every part of me knows this. And yet, we have this photo.

And it wasn’t even my camera.

Sometimes I wonder how I even have friends.

One of my them tried to tell me that I enhanced photos, rather than ruin them. For anonymity’s sake, we’ll call her a total fucking liar.

This is not enhancement:

I also really like food.

I also really like food.

This is total and utter destruction.

I am the Godzilla of group photos.

I stomp around in a drunken daze and destroy everyone’s chance at finding a fun new profile pic. 

I am a destroyer of social media success.

Damn me.

However, while writing this blog, I came to the conclusion that the reason for my change from a peaceful little tipsy gnome to a tornado of drunken destructiveness is:


Damn you, university. With your (sometimes) free alcohol, and lack of rules.

No, you know what? F*** you.

F*** you, university.

Now, beware children (if there are any children reading this blog, which I hope there aren’t, since I could easily be a pedophile lying in wait (except I’m not) but back to the point in these parentheses, you should maybe ask your parents before signing up for a blog website, because that just seems like common sense), a higher education is not all fun and games. It can lead to social humiliation, regret, and remorse.

So much remorse.

My spidey senses are tingling with it.

But on the flip side, university’s also the time in your life when making a fool of yourself is somewhat socially acceptable.

So if you’re like the Old Me, and are scared of embarrassing yourself, stop it. Stop it right now.
You don’t learn anything by playing it safe. You learn by going a little bit crazy and getting a little bit silly. Otherwise, how else will you learn to laugh at yourself?

I’m not saying that you need to get drunk all the time and pass out on the bathroom floor in some frat house. You just need to stop caring what other people think so much. It’s a hard thing to do, but it’s so worth it. Because when you stop caring what other people think, you can actually start becoming yourself.

In the wise words of a class-A drunk, Chelsea Handler:

“Laugh loudly, laugh often, and most important, laugh at yourself.”
So if every Sunday morning I emerge from my cave (read: room) looking like this:
that’s my prerogative. Because I don’t give a flying f*** what people think of me anymore- and I’ve never been happier.
And that’s something to drink to.

I think I might have an unhealthy relationship with TV…

Sometimes, it’s healthy to take a step away from yourself and evaluate your life from afar like one of those Tween Queen bitches from middle school used to do to me in the mall food court.

By performing this judgmental evaluation of yourself, two conclusions can be drawn:

1) “You  fuckin’ rock at life, you hot piece of ass.”


2) “Sweet Jesus, what kind of human garbage have you become, you useless future agoraphobe?”

Sadly, I did not come to Conclusion #1. I do not rock at life, and I am not a hot piece of ass.

I am hopelessly devoted and Intervention-level addicted to TV.

It’s unhealthy.

In retrospect, I really should have noticed the warning signs.

For example, when I heard that “30 Rock” was going to be cancelled, my first reaction was something like this:

This reaction quickly turned into:
After shoving several dozen peanut-butter cupcakes into my tear-ridden face (baked by yours truly- that’s right, this bitch can bake), I took a trip back in time to see if there had been any other signs warning me of my addiction.
Oh god, were there ever.
I remembered a time not so long ago when I explained, in great detail, the process of meth production and distribution to my twelve year-old brother.
As well as the process of money-laundering.
He believed I knew from personal experience and looked at me with a combination of awe and fear.
No, sweet child, your sister is not a money-laundering meth dealer, she is simply delusional.
When my sister suggested quietly that maybe I should set the record straight, I replied with:
And walked away.
To a well-adjusted human being, this would have been enough for their conscience to say: “Hey man, maybe you should stop watching the idiot box so much… You’re not doing so good, bro.”
But not for this raging beast of TV burden (I know that doesn’t make sense, but I’M DISTRAUGHT).
My friends began to compare me to Abed from Community….and I didn’t even care. Sweet Beyonce on High, I was flattered.
Granted, he is the best character on the show and he’s pretty awesome and whatnot, but we’re talking about a character whose friends only keep him around because his delusions make their lives more entertaining.
Whatever, I thought.
The final red flag waved at me like a French prostitute’s TB-infested handkerchief on Bastille Day.
i.e. It was really, really obvious but I was blinded by the promise of television art every night before bed (and no, I do not mean porn, but I still respect you if that’s your vice of choice).
It happened on a day. This day was no different from any other day. I was sitting alone in my room, watching my computer screen with strained, reddened eyes, my irises reflecting the movements of the on-screen images that so mesmerized me.
I was watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, namely, the episode containing the musical, “The Nightman Cometh”. Now, I will defend myself once by saying that this entire episode is a piece of comedy genius, but that is really neither here nor there.
Now, if you haven’t seen the Nightman Cometh, in order to relate to my sad existence, I would suggest you watch it here:
This isn’t a suggestion. This is an order. A desperate order. Please watch.
Anyways, I was watching it and dancing along, as one often does whilst watching an inter-textual musical on a TV show. Like this:
I was laughing really hard. Like really, really hard. Like harder than an Indian guy at a Russell Peters show.
Suddenly, my euphoria was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, reluctantly pausing my video and fearing the inevitability of real social interaction.
“Elektra,” said one of my roommates, (name has been changed), coming into the room with the trepidation of a visitor to the ICU.
She glanced around my room, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Oh,” she said, “I thought there were other people in here… I heard laughing… Never mind.”
And she left.
She left me standing there, next to my computer, hands frozen above my head in a mid-clap position, shell-shocked.
It wasn’t until I took a step back from my life that I realized what I had become.
A junkie.
And I didn’t take it well.
Until I decided, you know what? TV is fuckin awesome. And there’s a little bit of Abed inside all of us. Each of us is an Abed, a meth dealer, a perpetually single food-addicted showrunner, and a Nightman who Comeths.
And I don’t think I’ll be changing any time soon.
And you can bet your ass that I’ll be tuning into Community on Thursday on NBC, and in the wise words of the now deceased Liz Lemon: