My alleged friends do not return my phone calls.
I call, and they agree to call back. Or, I call and leave a message, and the answering machine of any particular flake assures me that my call will be returned as soon as possible.
Why is this so? Does everyone suffer from flaky friends in the digital era? Is it because I inevitably experience that When Harry Met Sally breach of contract with all of the boys and I steal the boyfriends of most of my sisters? Am I only worthy of flaky friends?
I bet Dolly doesn't have flaky friends.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Objective: To kiss your ass and those of your clients until payday
I'm trading in my flip flops for impractical shoes and will strut around Montreal for the better part of tomorrow in search of a new, likely drug-addicted and image-obsessed employer.
As you all know, my job provides me with financial independence, male attention and endless hours of postmodern yuppie-style laughs that have me addicted to it more than black coffee and Diet Coke combined. I've had enough of counting my pennies and watching my bank account deplete for four consecutive months, so tomorrow my tits, ass and I are off to the races to shake martinis until the corporate execs go back to the office.
Wish me luck!
As you all know, my job provides me with financial independence, male attention and endless hours of postmodern yuppie-style laughs that have me addicted to it more than black coffee and Diet Coke combined. I've had enough of counting my pennies and watching my bank account deplete for four consecutive months, so tomorrow my tits, ass and I are off to the races to shake martinis until the corporate execs go back to the office.
Wish me luck!
I'm bringing blogging back
Lessons learned this summer:
1. I am awesome.
2. Russians are inhospitable but their cops are smarmily sexy.
3. My teeth are so white that Europeans find it distracting.
4. Mallory Bey can speak French?
5. Hitchhiking is cost-effective, fun and stupid.
6. Serbian drugs take five hours to kick in.
7. Don't get into cars with Mystics.
8. I like Dubstep. A lot.
9. I like medical students. Aspiring dentists are even sexier than Russian Militsia.
10. I am awesome.
1. I am awesome.
2. Russians are inhospitable but their cops are smarmily sexy.
3. My teeth are so white that Europeans find it distracting.
4. Mallory Bey can speak French?
5. Hitchhiking is cost-effective, fun and stupid.
6. Serbian drugs take five hours to kick in.
7. Don't get into cars with Mystics.
8. I like Dubstep. A lot.
9. I like medical students. Aspiring dentists are even sexier than Russian Militsia.
10. I am awesome.
Friday, June 27, 2008
No cops
So I am leaving Russia tomorrow and I didnt have a run-in with the cops. Laurence, my roommate got to hang with cops AND go to the hospital. I suck and am unexciting but will be making it up to myself soon...
Instead, I've been hanging out in hippie hell where no one uses utensils to eat their soy products and they moan meditatively and periodically throughout whatever it is they are doing... fucking, facebooking, peeling potatoes... I kid you not, dear readers, there are sporadic moaners in this buddha-blessed soviet housing unit and to cope I stuff bright orange sponges into my aural cavities. There are severe reprocussions to this act of resistance: ear wax build-up.
I'm going to give Soviet speed another try, and maybe if I'm short on cash and my fingerpaintings dont sell, I'll sell some of those to yound and umpressionable american tourists, of which there are so many EVERYWHERE I just don't know if I can resist the temptation.
Instead, I've been hanging out in hippie hell where no one uses utensils to eat their soy products and they moan meditatively and periodically throughout whatever it is they are doing... fucking, facebooking, peeling potatoes... I kid you not, dear readers, there are sporadic moaners in this buddha-blessed soviet housing unit and to cope I stuff bright orange sponges into my aural cavities. There are severe reprocussions to this act of resistance: ear wax build-up.
I'm going to give Soviet speed another try, and maybe if I'm short on cash and my fingerpaintings dont sell, I'll sell some of those to yound and umpressionable american tourists, of which there are so many EVERYWHERE I just don't know if I can resist the temptation.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Adventures in over-the-counter drugland
Vice magazine told me that Phenotropil was the cleanest speed the author had ever had. So, on Saturday evening I promptly sauntered over to the Apteka (Pharmacy) to see what the commotion was all about.
I care not to go in to extreme detail as I am technically not allowed to use the computer here chez my Soviet Hazaika (hostess), but I am pretty sure it was shit. I was unimpressed and awake all night, lost in the abyss of drunken St. Petersburg as Militsia told me on various occasions that the street I wished to pass along was 'zatkrit' (closed).
We are to try a higher dosage at a later date, and I shall not leave you in the dark.
With love and disappointments,
JACQ
I care not to go in to extreme detail as I am technically not allowed to use the computer here chez my Soviet Hazaika (hostess), but I am pretty sure it was shit. I was unimpressed and awake all night, lost in the abyss of drunken St. Petersburg as Militsia told me on various occasions that the street I wished to pass along was 'zatkrit' (closed).
We are to try a higher dosage at a later date, and I shall not leave you in the dark.
With love and disappointments,
JACQ
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Ew I fell in to a Soviet train toilet
Location: somewhere in between St. Petersburg and Moscow where the women haven't any teeth and the Kazakhs beside me don't dig footwear.
Behold: the Soviet Train. Everything is yellowed to the point where you are unsure if anything was every really white at all. The windows are like the lenses of pedophile glasses so everything is shit-tinted (as opposed to rose-tinted). The bench seats are made of burgundy vinyl and allergy-triggering roll-out mats are provided for a comfortable slumber in which you are to dream of hammers, sickles and food stamps.
I sit in this train, gazing out the window at dacha after dacha, careful not to direct my gaze in front of me where, on the left is a very fat man whose gut rests on his thighs. To his right, a small Asian boy sits quietly. They both sit silently and tinker away on their Blackberries for about four hours. The Kazakhs play cards and stare at my tits. I watch the fat man roll out his bed-mat on the lower bunk as the Asian man climbs spryly above the snoring oaf. I daydream, wishing it was Mister Gutface who had to climb up there to give his thighs a rest and transfer the pressure onto his chest. But alas, we are in Russia and not America.
I sketch some Sudokus and keep my Quebecois counterpart, Simon, awake for as long as possible. We eat Halva (THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD) and talk loudly and in English. We figure that our CCCP shirts make us fit in a little more, so our indecipherable and mysetrious Canadian accents won't give us away as tourists worth robbing.
Somewhere in between all of this, I stumble to the bathroom. First I must inform you that, in all toilets in Russia, there aren't any toilet seats. You hover or squat and at the same time pray to Stalin that you don't get hepatitis from this one. I have developed a method of holding on to the door handle of the stall and leaning back; it takes a lot of the pressure off of the quads. This time, however, I was pulling a little too hard, perhaps. So, in my golden shower of delight that I was granting to this steel bowl, I was holding on to the handle of the door and suddenly the door gave way and the bowl welcomed me with its hepatitis-infested gorge.
I am supposed to get the test results back from the pharmacy tomorrow, where I will subsequently try to ask for a moderately-sezed perscription of legal amphetamines for the final days of my love affair with Vladimir Putin.
Behold: the Soviet Train. Everything is yellowed to the point where you are unsure if anything was every really white at all. The windows are like the lenses of pedophile glasses so everything is shit-tinted (as opposed to rose-tinted). The bench seats are made of burgundy vinyl and allergy-triggering roll-out mats are provided for a comfortable slumber in which you are to dream of hammers, sickles and food stamps.
I sit in this train, gazing out the window at dacha after dacha, careful not to direct my gaze in front of me where, on the left is a very fat man whose gut rests on his thighs. To his right, a small Asian boy sits quietly. They both sit silently and tinker away on their Blackberries for about four hours. The Kazakhs play cards and stare at my tits. I watch the fat man roll out his bed-mat on the lower bunk as the Asian man climbs spryly above the snoring oaf. I daydream, wishing it was Mister Gutface who had to climb up there to give his thighs a rest and transfer the pressure onto his chest. But alas, we are in Russia and not America.
I sketch some Sudokus and keep my Quebecois counterpart, Simon, awake for as long as possible. We eat Halva (THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD) and talk loudly and in English. We figure that our CCCP shirts make us fit in a little more, so our indecipherable and mysetrious Canadian accents won't give us away as tourists worth robbing.
Somewhere in between all of this, I stumble to the bathroom. First I must inform you that, in all toilets in Russia, there aren't any toilet seats. You hover or squat and at the same time pray to Stalin that you don't get hepatitis from this one. I have developed a method of holding on to the door handle of the stall and leaning back; it takes a lot of the pressure off of the quads. This time, however, I was pulling a little too hard, perhaps. So, in my golden shower of delight that I was granting to this steel bowl, I was holding on to the handle of the door and suddenly the door gave way and the bowl welcomed me with its hepatitis-infested gorge.
I am supposed to get the test results back from the pharmacy tomorrow, where I will subsequently try to ask for a moderately-sezed perscription of legal amphetamines for the final days of my love affair with Vladimir Putin.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Living in a Soviet Gangster's Paradise
So here I am, in the USSR. Some people like to call it Russia but I think that's a load of stuffwhitepeoplelike crap.
All of the men have mullets.
All of the women look like prostitutes from the late '80s.
No one knows what chickpeas are.
Being the scenester hound that I am, I have discovered Dacha, the indie hangout of St. Petersburg where they play Mambo #5 on the busy nights to get people really going. Here, I first inhale, drink and finally snort Sambuca with either gargantuan Russian men that are scary and oafy as fuck, or short, lithe Russian men who are creepy as, well, short and creepy Russians. Dacha is my house (or my 'cottage,' as that is what Dacha means in Russian) where vodka bottle service costs $20 and cigarette burns are free. From my tank top-sporting evening last night, I look like I have a sadist as a Cnoncop (Pronouncer 'sponsor,' this means Sugar Daddy or Sucre Pere in Russian).
Love!
All of the men have mullets.
All of the women look like prostitutes from the late '80s.
No one knows what chickpeas are.
Being the scenester hound that I am, I have discovered Dacha, the indie hangout of St. Petersburg where they play Mambo #5 on the busy nights to get people really going. Here, I first inhale, drink and finally snort Sambuca with either gargantuan Russian men that are scary and oafy as fuck, or short, lithe Russian men who are creepy as, well, short and creepy Russians. Dacha is my house (or my 'cottage,' as that is what Dacha means in Russian) where vodka bottle service costs $20 and cigarette burns are free. From my tank top-sporting evening last night, I look like I have a sadist as a Cnoncop (Pronouncer 'sponsor,' this means Sugar Daddy or Sucre Pere in Russian).
Love!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
FINLAND IS THE ANSWER
I am in Paradise.
Everyone is beautiful, trendy, athletic and they speak in a language I do not understand so it makes it a lot harder to judge those who are stupid based on the content of their conversation.
In Finland, no one locks up their bikes.
In Finland, the only one who is 'poor' is I.
In Finland, there is an H&M to every street corner.
In Finland, the air is clear and the sun shines through the night.
In Finland, all is so charming that even the smell of fish kind of turns me on. That, or I am suffering from a lack of intimacy. Blondes are no exotic breed here, you see. I guess I better haul my ass over to Italy soon if I want to draw any kind of male attention.
Everyone is beautiful, trendy, athletic and they speak in a language I do not understand so it makes it a lot harder to judge those who are stupid based on the content of their conversation.
In Finland, no one locks up their bikes.
In Finland, the only one who is 'poor' is I.
In Finland, there is an H&M to every street corner.
In Finland, the air is clear and the sun shines through the night.
In Finland, all is so charming that even the smell of fish kind of turns me on. That, or I am suffering from a lack of intimacy. Blondes are no exotic breed here, you see. I guess I better haul my ass over to Italy soon if I want to draw any kind of male attention.
Friday, May 16, 2008
1. Too much fun 2. Too poor
These are the very valid reasons why my blog will not be updated very often in the next few months.
Have fun in North America, cock suckers!
Which, in French, means "I love you all!"
Have fun in North America, cock suckers!
Which, in French, means "I love you all!"
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Is it wrong that I'm crushing on younger men?
In my latest little boy misadventures on the internet, I've unearthed two adorable pre-pubescent gems that warm my heart and send pangs of lust through my ovaries.
I'm known to obsess over Bostonians every now and again, so allow me to introduce you to Bo. He is one sweet sixteen of a boy, I tell ya:
My other sexy little heartthrob is Chris Crocker, a little 20-year old from my girl Dolly's Tennessee mountain home. Sometimes I just want to rip my clothes off right in the middle of one of his public service announcements...
I'm known to obsess over Bostonians every now and again, so allow me to introduce you to Bo. He is one sweet sixteen of a boy, I tell ya:
My other sexy little heartthrob is Chris Crocker, a little 20-year old from my girl Dolly's Tennessee mountain home. Sometimes I just want to rip my clothes off right in the middle of one of his public service announcements...
Monday, May 12, 2008
Naked and Paris-bound
My dearest fairweather friends,
I am leaving this god forsaken continent for a new one that will drain my bank account even more quickly. Thrilled, I am, I am, Sam I am!
I've been in this suburb-of-Toronto town for a week now, visiting my flawless Maman. As much as I love her and her pathetically stocked refrigerator, I am going stir crazy here.
For example, all I do all day is walk aimlessly throughout the alternately carpeted and hard-wooded floors of this town home. However, I do this completely naked, save for my gold necklace whose clasp is broken. In fact, at this very blogging moment I am in the buff. I also did this in my former apartment, but my sparkly moisturizer (that my cousins gave me for Christmas, God bless their diva souls) would get all over the vinyl chairs. See, I don't necessarily covet glittery moisturizer, but I'm not about to toss a brand new bottle of it in to the trash. Mal, my beloved roommate, thought otherwise. Out of respect for my shimmer-hating former life partner, I had to start wearing a robe.
I am leaving this god forsaken continent for a new one that will drain my bank account even more quickly. Thrilled, I am, I am, Sam I am!
I've been in this suburb-of-Toronto town for a week now, visiting my flawless Maman. As much as I love her and her pathetically stocked refrigerator, I am going stir crazy here.
For example, all I do all day is walk aimlessly throughout the alternately carpeted and hard-wooded floors of this town home. However, I do this completely naked, save for my gold necklace whose clasp is broken. In fact, at this very blogging moment I am in the buff. I also did this in my former apartment, but my sparkly moisturizer (that my cousins gave me for Christmas, God bless their diva souls) would get all over the vinyl chairs. See, I don't necessarily covet glittery moisturizer, but I'm not about to toss a brand new bottle of it in to the trash. Mal, my beloved roommate, thought otherwise. Out of respect for my shimmer-hating former life partner, I had to start wearing a robe.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
My Mum is so badass
Tonight, my Mum and I went to a movie. She splurged this time around, spending $15.74 on popcorn, a Diet Coke and M&Ms. Insanity!
So, I suggested after watching the movie that we sneak in to another one. Without a flinch of hesitation, she agrees. We toss our movie stubs, refill our cola, strut into theatre No. 4 and stick it to the man.
Hey, AMC! Take your $15 admission price and shove it up your Harry Potter-profiting ass.
Nautical family ties
Hey, look! It's the Delta Shine! Kaptain Kim and his crew are a fine bunch, they are, they are!
Oh, no! It looks as though there is a problem with the watercraft! The filter on the hull is covered in barnacles. What shall we do?
Kaptain Kim digs into his trunk of oceanic appliances and fishes out a snorkeling mask. He jumps into the murky marina water with a mission to kick some serious barnacle ass.
In the water, Kimmer grows a little frustrated.
"My ears are really sensitive to the salt water," he moans.
followed by, "I can't see anything down here"
"I can't hold myself under water. I need a belt with some weights on it."
"This salt water makes me gag."
With all of this racket coming from Komplaining Kim, Judicious Jacq is unable to read about Sweden's latest denim trends in Nylon. She rises from her tanning chair and goes to see what she can do to keep him from bitching like a divorcée.
Kitschy Karry is helping! She has rummaged through the trunk of oceanic appliances to recover a flashlight! She puts it into a ziplock bag, and throws it to Kaptain Kimmer.Judicious Jacq goes inside the cabin, only to emerge in moments' time with a plastic cup of cheap tequila.
"Here you go, there, Kimmer," she hollers, "this should make things a little easier and a little less stressful for ya."
Judicious Jacq, what a kindred spirit, always throws alcohol at problems when she sees no solution.
Kitschy Karry scolds Judicious Jacq, "That isn't going to help," to which the Swede enthusiast replies, "It'll calm him down. I don't feel like putting up with a Kim-sized fit this early in the morning."
Stressed and salted like a good piece of Nordic cod, Kaptain Kim politely declines the tequila offer and goes on failing at his task.
Kitschy Karry stands by for moral support.
Judicious Jacq makes herself a cocktail, sits on a vinyl-covered seat and feels famously better than her Kaptain and krew as the ice cubes reach her lips and the margaritas flow like her Aunt Flo.
Hollywood Beach, America.
The little Aryan boy is named Paul. He and his raven-haired friend (I didn't get his name) were loitering outside of a shoreline shop that sold Corona bathing suits and tanning oil, 'shooting' at various objects, people, and sea gulls.
They seemed to be having fun with their rifle, so I asked to take their picture. They posed for me as seen here, only Paul pointed the gun at me. I kindly asked him to point it to his left so that the camera could see it. He complied.
I thanked the boys, and they ran off, the raven-haired whispering to Paul, "Maybe we'll be in the PAPER!"
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Surprise, surprise
Y'all wish you were skinnier. Hit the stairmaster; stop facebooking. Medical notes mean you don't have to write exams or hand in term papers! | 0 (0%) |
Prescribed meds = getting craaazy stoned and lucid dreams ALL DAY LONG | 2 (20%) |
I'll finally be able to fit into those jeans that (pre-mono) I've been too fat for | 5 (50%) |
Pity presents from Mom & Dad | 3 (30%) |
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Pina Coladas will NEVER go out of style
Sorry for not blogging in a while!
I'm with my Pa (Kaptain Kim) and my sister (Care Bear/Sick One/Douche-a-sis) in the retirement capital of the Atlantic: Fort Lauderdale.
We're on my Dad's new mid-life crisis project that I have affectionately named the 'Delta Shine.' It's a boat. You sleep on it, drink on it, tan on it, burn on it first, and EVEN surf the net on it. I blog from the Intra-Coastal Waterway as we speak.
My ass is a beautiful shade of both red AND white, as I pay homage to my Canadian roots in the land of all-you-can-eat buffets and old women with tattoos on their saggy tits.
I miss you all.
I'm with my Pa (Kaptain Kim) and my sister (Care Bear/Sick One/Douche-a-sis) in the retirement capital of the Atlantic: Fort Lauderdale.
We're on my Dad's new mid-life crisis project that I have affectionately named the 'Delta Shine.' It's a boat. You sleep on it, drink on it, tan on it, burn on it first, and EVEN surf the net on it. I blog from the Intra-Coastal Waterway as we speak.
My ass is a beautiful shade of both red AND white, as I pay homage to my Canadian roots in the land of all-you-can-eat buffets and old women with tattoos on their saggy tits.
I miss you all.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Thanks, Danny!
For the first time in what feels like years, I am wearing my retainer. My pearly whites are in great danger of returning to their pre-orthodontic state and I, along with my toothpaste commercial smile will have none of this.
So, in my mouth is my retainer, in its wiry, purple and Canadian-flagged glory. (In Grade 8, when I got my braces off, I had the choice of what colour retainer I wanted, and with which image imprinted on the plastic part, selected from Windows '98 Clipart. Appropriately, my selection was a nice shade of eggplant with a Canadian flag.)
I wish to take this opportunity to thank my dear friend Danny for reminding me that wearing your retainer is important and one must not give up on the lisp-inducing little thang.
DANNY: "You have such a great overbite for making silly faces, Jacq."
My you-hate-me-because-my-teeth-are-nicer-than-yours confidence has since been deflated.
So, in my mouth is my retainer, in its wiry, purple and Canadian-flagged glory. (In Grade 8, when I got my braces off, I had the choice of what colour retainer I wanted, and with which image imprinted on the plastic part, selected from Windows '98 Clipart. Appropriately, my selection was a nice shade of eggplant with a Canadian flag.)
I wish to take this opportunity to thank my dear friend Danny for reminding me that wearing your retainer is important and one must not give up on the lisp-inducing little thang.
DANNY: "You have such a great overbite for making silly faces, Jacq."
My you-hate-me-because-my-teeth-are-nicer-than-yours confidence has since been deflated.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Faith in humanity: Restored
After my fruitless venture to the Russian Consulate, I reported to my Professor who is overseeing my upcoming eastern hullabaloo that is called 'language camp.' Defeated and ill, I had given up on trying to retrieve my passport and wished him via gmail to have a wonderful weekend.
AND YET-
I get a phone call on Saturday. It is Professor's assistant, reporting to me that, in his hands he holds my beloved passport. Professor had personally trundled over to the consulate and "begged" (as his assistant informed me) for them to let him have it so the poor girl (me) could go and see her father (Kaptain Kim).
Professor did not have to do that. (I should have just paid the additional $150 to get it processed more quickly)
After all, there are individuals on the McGill payroll who are not disinterested and ignorant robots, but kind Russian scholars with warm hearts and communist bartering skills!
AND YET-
I get a phone call on Saturday. It is Professor's assistant, reporting to me that, in his hands he holds my beloved passport. Professor had personally trundled over to the consulate and "begged" (as his assistant informed me) for them to let him have it so the poor girl (me) could go and see her father (Kaptain Kim).
Professor did not have to do that. (I should have just paid the additional $150 to get it processed more quickly)
After all, there are individuals on the McGill payroll who are not disinterested and ignorant robots, but kind Russian scholars with warm hearts and communist bartering skills!
Friday, April 25, 2008
In Russia there ain't no love, baby
Today, with my adorable babushka kerchief, pearly white and innocent smile, I went to the Consulate of the Russian Federation and thought I could con them into accelerating my visa papers. My California girl Kat came along because she's wonderful and really into interior decorating and I thought she might like to see the consulate.
Usually, I can talk my way out of anything.
But, in this country, this is not the case.
I walk in to the wood-paneled room adorned with Soviet propaganda, and all 15 people in there are speaking Russian ochen bistra (that means 'very fast'). I take a number, and we sit down, trying to take the situation very seriously.
In the office, there are two small windows, about 2'x3.5'. One is called "1" and the other is appropriately called "2." Everyone in the room had the same 3-4 papers in their hand, a passport and a solemn [Russian] expression. I realize this is not the place I should try to sweet talk my way into getting my passport back sooner (I am supposed to travel to AMERICA in a few days), so I go to the security desk to see what's going on.
JACQ: "Excuse me"
A man (let's call him ANGRY RUSSIAN) motions to press the white intercom button. I see it, I press it.
JACQ: "Excuse me, can I ask you something?"
ANGRY RUSSIAN: "GARBLAHSK OHMBER"
I think I missed what he said.
JACQ: "May I ask you a question?"
In the most Russian and incomprehensible accent I have ever heard, he points and says "Go to nahmber wan." (Go to number 1.)
JACQ: "No, I have anoth-"
ANGRY RUSSIAN continues to point to "Number 1"
I sit back down. I realize this is not going to work. Sometimes, my Crest commercial smile and doe eyes can't get me everything I want. Kat and I return to the car, I change the oil for the first time in my life (I mean, at least I accomplished something), and we go home.
I don't even think Kat liked the decorating inside.
Today was a hard day.
Usually, I can talk my way out of anything.
But, in this country, this is not the case.
I walk in to the wood-paneled room adorned with Soviet propaganda, and all 15 people in there are speaking Russian ochen bistra (that means 'very fast'). I take a number, and we sit down, trying to take the situation very seriously.
In the office, there are two small windows, about 2'x3.5'. One is called "1" and the other is appropriately called "2." Everyone in the room had the same 3-4 papers in their hand, a passport and a solemn [Russian] expression. I realize this is not the place I should try to sweet talk my way into getting my passport back sooner (I am supposed to travel to AMERICA in a few days), so I go to the security desk to see what's going on.
JACQ: "Excuse me"
A man (let's call him ANGRY RUSSIAN) motions to press the white intercom button. I see it, I press it.
JACQ: "Excuse me, can I ask you something?"
ANGRY RUSSIAN: "GARBLAHSK OHMBER"
I think I missed what he said.
JACQ: "May I ask you a question?"
In the most Russian and incomprehensible accent I have ever heard, he points and says "Go to nahmber wan." (Go to number 1.)
JACQ: "No, I have anoth-"
ANGRY RUSSIAN continues to point to "Number 1"
I sit back down. I realize this is not going to work. Sometimes, my Crest commercial smile and doe eyes can't get me everything I want. Kat and I return to the car, I change the oil for the first time in my life (I mean, at least I accomplished something), and we go home.
I don't even think Kat liked the decorating inside.
Today was a hard day.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Win a dream date with Enrique Iglesias!
Your selfish selves and your one night stands... Honesty is the best policy, and when it all comes down to drugs and one-sided orgasms, I am thrilled to see that my faithful readers refuse to settle for the short end of the stick! Still, I am also very excited to notice how popular asphyxiation has become based on the number of votes the skull fuckers cast! Here is the verdict on this week's poll: Cocktails and anti-climactic missionary-positioned sex | (5%) |
A bump, a line and a little bump 'n grind in the bathroom stall. You get off, they don't. | (42%) |
Skull fucking and skull fucking | (26%) |
Drinking wine and reading french poetry at his/her parents' house | (26%) |
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
HIPSTERIA QUIZOMANIE!
Suck or click on these, baby. Reaffirm your hipsterdom to your one true hipster self, then go and have a self-congratulatory PBR.
Apparently, I'm a Bipster (a blue-collar hipster)
In this case, I'm a Trucker Hat Hipster (I'm hip and I don't even know it)
Perhaps I really am just a tortured intellectual as this quiz has informed me!
Ah! I am the shit. Or, I mean, the 'Comsummate Hipster'
Apparently, I'm a Bipster (a blue-collar hipster)
In this case, I'm a Trucker Hat Hipster (I'm hip and I don't even know it)
Perhaps I really am just a tortured intellectual as this quiz has informed me!
Ah! I am the shit. Or, I mean, the 'Comsummate Hipster'
Still too good for my former Euro Trash employers...
I quit my job on Sunday. Yep, no more corporate suits, nose-jobbed trophy wives, under-age dealer groupies (and their dealers, of course), shitty 'house' DJs, Quebecois celebrities, stripey-shirted douche bags, Arabian oil lords, seedy-yet-entertaining strip-club owners, or ignorant and rich little princesses who ask for no dressing (instead, salt and lemons) on their garden salads.
Well, at least for four months. Fear not, loyal readers, I will be a bar star once again and live to tell the many humorous tales.
So I asked my boss why I wasn't awarded the schedule I deserve. Why, oh why, may I not be the one privileged enough to serve vodka-Red-Bulls at a high volume to unworthy yet cash-bearing patrons?
"Well, you're not really enthusiastic enough. Sometimes you don't look like you're happy to be here." (this is code for: "You don't party here on your days off with us, and you don't grab our asses as much as we grab yours, and well, that is what enthusiasm means to us.")
Working for these boys isn't a job; it's a lifestyle.
Fuck that shit. I've got higher aspirations, like being a barmaid at some other shitty, $9 Heineken bar. But in the mean time, allow me to celebrate with the money I will no longer be earning! YAY!!!!!
You can send donations (food stamps, cash, drugs, clothing, non-perishables) to my unemployed ass at my mom's house (leave a comment and I'll send you her address).
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Uncool
THIS IS SHIT.
I hate this magazine. I loved Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde, but for her to call Cosmopolitan 'the Bible' is the most regressive statement this woman could make to millions of people.
Do you turn men on?
Are you a good flirt?
Do guys think you're sexy?
How mysterious are you?
I want to throw up all over these glossy pages and bubble-gumely templated website.
I know, I read Vogue. I am not hypocritical; I am Third Wave.
Post-feminism and Cosmo can go and fuck each other on a weighing scale and then cry about it.
I hate this magazine. I loved Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde, but for her to call Cosmopolitan 'the Bible' is the most regressive statement this woman could make to millions of people.
Do you turn men on?
Are you a good flirt?
Do guys think you're sexy?
How mysterious are you?
I want to throw up all over these glossy pages and bubble-gumely templated website.
I know, I read Vogue. I am not hypocritical; I am Third Wave.
Post-feminism and Cosmo can go and fuck each other on a weighing scale and then cry about it.
Emily Ames is 21
So I know this fucking babe. I mean, she's HOT. Like, just as smokin' as me.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank her for exposing me to the Hives and drawing me away from my high school boyfriend's music collection that consisted of the Used, and, of course, Punk Goes Acoustic.
Emily, I love you.
Emily, you are the shit.
Emily, we were almost groupies once and you cut my hair off as carefully instructed by Pavement.
Emily and I treat people as cultural experiments sometimes and we only sort of do it maliciously. We had a radio show together in high school. On this show, we fueled the myth that we were 'Lakefield's Lesbian Couple.' We were the radicals of our small 'Anglican' private school, and although now we've sold out and read Vogue more often than Adbusters, we hold in our hearts a strong love for one another, in addition to the knowledge that we are better than everyone (may they be younger or older) who hates us because we are beautiful.
Happy Birthday, Lil.
Apparently, younger people suck because...
Finally, an honest response from my loyal readers. Allow me to take this opportunity to say thank you, and to request that with this general acceptance of your embarrassingly obnoxious past that you fuck off with your holier-than-thou pretension that you call 'experience.' For every younger person in this world who doesn't give a shit about you or your cocktail party banter, there are at least three people older than you who think you are a douche bag. Thanks for voting! | |||||||||
Sunday, April 13, 2008
I think I'm a masochist
I've been sitting for 30 hours. Or more. I sit, I write, I stumble, I blog, I write of High Stalinism...
In the library, my choice spot to study is in front of the travel books. I sit, I type, and I stare at the plethora of Lonely Planets, knowing that I will not leave this library, never mind city, for at least another 30 hours.
Why do I torture myself so?
In the library, my choice spot to study is in front of the travel books. I sit, I type, and I stare at the plethora of Lonely Planets, knowing that I will not leave this library, never mind city, for at least another 30 hours.
Why do I torture myself so?
Friday, April 11, 2008
Sandwich Thief
There is an adorable Greek bakery-cafe across from both my apartment and the [YMCA] steam room. Yesterday, I sauntered over to get my $3 sandwich that I have grown to love so much.
I sit down, organize my things and as I put a text book to my right, nearing me from behind is a very interesting looking woman. She has giant, uncombed frizzy hair and her outfit leads one to believe that she was playing bohemian princess in 1967 at age four and hasn't changed clothes since. They were just that dirty and that pink and purple-y.
She assumes I have put my book beside me to discourage her from sitting there. I know this, because as I put the book down she says, "Oh! Now we're really talking!"
I don't really care if she wants to sit beside me; I just have a lot of books. So I apologize and offer her a seat next to me.
She shuffles over, humming and screeching (I can't make the noise, there simply isn't an
onomatopoeia to describe it) and starts to pull out some things from her bag.
First, she pulls out two paintings of kindergarden-style butterflies on purple and pink construction paper.
Next, a terribly scratched Best of Van Morrisson cd.
Between us rests my beautiful swiss cheese, tomato and lettuce of which there is such abundance that it it struggles to fit neatly inside the fresh baguette. The woman hums and screeches, pointing at my sandwhich. Her fingers are filthy.
I think she is just pointing at it because, you know, she's an artist and a Van fan, so maybe she likes to point.
No.
She takes one half of my sandwich.
Shocked and suprised, I quickly take it from her and say "Nothat'smine!"
"Just a bite?" She says quickly.
"No," I reply.
"Cigarette?" She asks.
"No," I reply.
Bitch almost stole my sandwich.
The guy on the other side of her is less tolerant. He asks her to leave because she is bothering him. Screeching and humming, she packs up her Van and her butterflies and shuffles away.
I sit down, organize my things and as I put a text book to my right, nearing me from behind is a very interesting looking woman. She has giant, uncombed frizzy hair and her outfit leads one to believe that she was playing bohemian princess in 1967 at age four and hasn't changed clothes since. They were just that dirty and that pink and purple-y.
She assumes I have put my book beside me to discourage her from sitting there. I know this, because as I put the book down she says, "Oh! Now we're really talking!"
I don't really care if she wants to sit beside me; I just have a lot of books. So I apologize and offer her a seat next to me.
She shuffles over, humming and screeching (I can't make the noise, there simply isn't an
onomatopoeia to describe it) and starts to pull out some things from her bag.
First, she pulls out two paintings of kindergarden-style butterflies on purple and pink construction paper.
Next, a terribly scratched Best of Van Morrisson cd.
Between us rests my beautiful swiss cheese, tomato and lettuce of which there is such abundance that it it struggles to fit neatly inside the fresh baguette. The woman hums and screeches, pointing at my sandwhich. Her fingers are filthy.
I think she is just pointing at it because, you know, she's an artist and a Van fan, so maybe she likes to point.
No.
She takes one half of my sandwich.
Shocked and suprised, I quickly take it from her and say "Nothat'smine!"
"Just a bite?" She says quickly.
"No," I reply.
"Cigarette?" She asks.
"No," I reply.
Bitch almost stole my sandwich.
The guy on the other side of her is less tolerant. He asks her to leave because she is bothering him. Screeching and humming, she packs up her Van and her butterflies and shuffles away.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
McGill can eat my gut rot
I'd say that I drink about seven cups of coffee per paper-writing day.
Today, I'm at three cups. But it's only 2:30. I've eaten a handful of almonds (salted!) and some jam with porridge.
Anyway, I took this test.
Created by OnePlusYou
I didn't want to try too hard, you know, because then I'd be a try-hard. According to the test, I am "productive" and "jittery."
Again, if anyone has a little brother with ADD, CALL ME. Facebook me. Email me. Blog me. Text me. Smoke signal me. Sign me. You will be compensated for your time, services and kindness.
Today, I'm at three cups. But it's only 2:30. I've eaten a handful of almonds (salted!) and some jam with porridge.
Anyway, I took this test.
Created by OnePlusYou
I didn't want to try too hard, you know, because then I'd be a try-hard. According to the test, I am "productive" and "jittery."
Again, if anyone has a little brother with ADD, CALL ME. Facebook me. Email me. Blog me. Text me. Smoke signal me. Sign me. You will be compensated for your time, services and kindness.
Y'all dig crying in public because...
I like to be pitied | 3 (25%) |
Crying in private is gay | 2 (16%) |
My life is like a movie | 6 (50%) |
I have never cried in public, and I am lying | 1 (8%) |
Esteemed readers, I am pleased to announce that the crying in public survey polled an all-time high of twelve votes! Ilovestagemoms is on the rise in the blogosphere!
Now, allow me to slap six of you across the face to tell you that you do not transcend reality, nor do you have a camera crew following you around with Coldplay blasting as the original score to this self-indulgent crying that is "like a movie."
Your life ain't like a movie. You want pity. Liars.
Don't forget to vote on my next poll!
Saturday, April 5, 2008
My laptop keeps me from leading a balanced lifestyle
Yesterday evening, my plan was to go to the gym for some elliptically-induced cardiovascular exercise and a steam. I put on my spandex, sneakers, and sweat band, got my ipod and water bottle, and went to my check my email quickly-- you know, in case anything minute or drastic has changed on my voting poll.
I sat, I sat, I sat at my computer. I stumbled, I googled, I blogged and I DID NOT GO TO THE GYM. I just sat there.
I sat, I sat, I sat at my computer. I stumbled, I googled, I blogged and I DID NOT GO TO THE GYM. I just sat there.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Sexually aggressive and completely untrustworthy
My dear friend Nik has shed some light on how I might go about summarizing my personality to potential suitors. I've been floundering around this soggy city for quite some time trying to figure out who I am. Luckily, I have Nik.
Oh. That sounds about right.
Nik, you are my Oracle.
NIK: "So I'm going out with this girl tonight,"
JACQ: "Oh yeah, what's she like?"
NIK: "She's kind of like you, actually."
JACQ: "Really? What do you mean."
NIK: "Well, she's sexually aggressive and completely untrustworthy."
JACQ: "Oh yeah, what's she like?"
NIK: "She's kind of like you, actually."
JACQ: "Really? What do you mean."
NIK: "Well, she's sexually aggressive and completely untrustworthy."
Oh. That sounds about right.
Nik, you are my Oracle.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
I need study drugs
This is getting out of hand.
The paint on these walls here is so abrasive that I'm getting an abdominal work out trying to prevent myself from vomiting over my Stalinist Cinema notes.
If anyone knows a guy who knows a guy who can score me drugs that are really for pre-pubescent boys who can't sit still, let me know. You will remain anonymous and your generosity will be greatly appreciated.
The paint on these walls here is so abrasive that I'm getting an abdominal work out trying to prevent myself from vomiting over my Stalinist Cinema notes.
If anyone knows a guy who knows a guy who can score me drugs that are really for pre-pubescent boys who can't sit still, let me know. You will remain anonymous and your generosity will be greatly appreciated.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
They aren't funny, Mal. They're not.
This is how I feel about puns:
My roommate, Mal, is a huge fan of puns. This puts an enormous strain upon our relationship.
Her answering machine is always presented as a pun. Always.
The worst part of puns is when the punner pauses afterwards, asking with an idiot grimace on his or her face, "do you get it?" And then they proceed to explain the intricacies of some stupid phrase that you'll probably hear them utter two or three more times to other people throughout the lunch break, and with greater emphasis each time.
I mean, at least being ironic or newly antiquated means you don't have to follow it up with a stupid catch-phrase. Punners everywhere should just stop talking and start wearing Mickey Mouse tshirts.
My roommate, Mal, is a huge fan of puns. This puts an enormous strain upon our relationship.
Her answering machine is always presented as a pun. Always.
The worst part of puns is when the punner pauses afterwards, asking with an idiot grimace on his or her face, "do you get it?" And then they proceed to explain the intricacies of some stupid phrase that you'll probably hear them utter two or three more times to other people throughout the lunch break, and with greater emphasis each time.
I mean, at least being ironic or newly antiquated means you don't have to follow it up with a stupid catch-phrase. Punners everywhere should just stop talking and start wearing Mickey Mouse tshirts.
Friday, March 28, 2008
New career path...
I'm considering pursuing my flock of corporate suits so that I may levitate from my hell hole of student debt. The fruits of this particular thought process have me questioning why I shouldn't get a few pairs of Prada pumps and a Stam bag while I'm at it?
I feel like I'm letting this opportunity pass me by while I saunter down the sidewalk in shoes that are too cheap for my cultured soles and pedicured toes.
Sigh, I'm at a crossroad.
I feel like I'm letting this opportunity pass me by while I saunter down the sidewalk in shoes that are too cheap for my cultured soles and pedicured toes.
Sigh, I'm at a crossroad.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
I AM SO HOT, EVEN I MASTURBATE TO ME
Sorry, I was feeling a little low and needed a pick me up. I couldn't find my dealer, so this nostalgic utterance of mine is the next best thing.
I am a total babe.
I am a total babe.
Crying in public sucks
Last night I had to withstand a short, creepy man yelling at me in broken English about how he was "The KING" for two hours, and about how he was "a photographer," and towards the end of our chat, informed me that he had taken "over one hundred pictures" of me since he had sat down to drink his four glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
Why?
So I can be even more violated during the day by McGill University.
I smile and play stupid barmaid psychiatry games all through the night so that I can pay to be treated like shit by some faceless institution that takes my dirty money, tells me to pick a number and wait so that I can be enlightened as to why I am not good enough to make the grade or the tuition payment deadline, so that I can be informed that my essays are not following closely enough to the the requirements of the assignment, and that my poor attendance has resulted in a dock of 10% on my final mark.
I'm sorry I wasn't in my conferences last week; I was busy giving blow jobs to your accounting secretary whilst taking it up the ass from the dean of Arts, all so that I can come back for round 2 next Wednesday afternoon.
McGill really is the school that just keeps on giving.
Take my dirty money you fucking fucks; it's the least that you deserve.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
I am too stylish and intelligent for my Euro trash employers
Because I have enough taste to choose not to wear gold lamé 'bar shirts,' I am denied the promotion I deserve.
My bosses will marry me, fuck me and serve me drinks until I can drink, fuck and wed no more, but will not let me pour vodka-red bulls at high volume on Fridays.
My bosses will marry me, fuck me and serve me drinks until I can drink, fuck and wed no more, but will not let me pour vodka-red bulls at high volume on Fridays.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Love at first Ugg
In most cases, I find that black leggings and Ugg boots are the most repulsive of outfit combinations. I wonder how these girls ever bring themselves to believe that there is some sex appeal to be had in Australian post-surf footwear, but alas, men like this exist.
Young and rich? I feel like I hopped on the wrong bandwagon. I'm starting to feel insecure about my un-pedicured feet. I need a steam.
Young and rich? I feel like I hopped on the wrong bandwagon. I'm starting to feel insecure about my un-pedicured feet. I need a steam.
Sometimes, I just can't help myself
Sometimes I forget that I am not at work.
Sometimes, flirting with older men is deemed 'unacceptable.'
Yesterday, I exchanged words with a friendly, red-scarved and starry-eyed man at the campus snack bar. The climactic portion of the spectacle went something like this:
NEW YORK TIMES READER: So are you a visiting student or a visiting charmer?
JACQ: Both.
Mid-day carafes of wine are of what college dreams are made.
Sometimes, flirting with older men is deemed 'unacceptable.'
Yesterday, I exchanged words with a friendly, red-scarved and starry-eyed man at the campus snack bar. The climactic portion of the spectacle went something like this:
NEW YORK TIMES READER: So are you a visiting student or a visiting charmer?
JACQ: Both.
New York Times Reader, who reveals himself to be a professor of economics at the university, starts for the nearest exit and goes for a long cigarette.
Mid-day carafes of wine are of what college dreams are made.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Vote or Die!
Eleven of you would holler at Dolly Parton because... 9 to 5 is the greatest movie ever | 1 (9%) |
She created jobs for people of her home town by erecting Dollywood | 3 (27%) |
"You'd be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap!" -Dolly | 5 (45%) |
Boobs | 2 (18%) |
I am appalled by the fact that the most radical film ever made in Hollywood— the only one in which the workers overthrow their oppressor and take hold of the means of production— earned only one vote.
The superficiality of this world makes me want to fuck off and go shopping. Forever.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I am a failure; I lack; My life sucks; I am going nowhere; They didn't have any sour cream glazed timbits at Tim Horton's
To cope with my sadness and disappointment surrounding what I call 'my life,' today I purchased impractical shoes.
I am the most typical woman in contemporary hyper-consumer history.
My legs better look fucking fabulous in these. If I don't continue my daily dates with the Y and the steam room, all I'm going to have by the time the snow melts in this god forsaken city are chunky, stumpy gams and impractical studded wedge heels.
Monday, March 10, 2008
You Know Journalism is Dead When...
...Celebrity journalism attacks Quebec's finest export for leg hair:
Give the woman a rest. In fact, "Because You Loved Me" sounds infinitely better knowing that she has some angel hair on her chic little thighs.
I am taking this opportunity to praise my fellow Quebecoise on the naturalist approach she has taken to presenting her legs, as they seem to balance out the obscene spectacle her make-up artist and hair stylist have created that has enabled her to live comfortably and with others of her kind in Las Vegas.
Tu va, fille!
Links!
Draggerific
(She was probably a dance mom in her previous life)
Go Home
Give the woman a rest. In fact, "Because You Loved Me" sounds infinitely better knowing that she has some angel hair on her chic little thighs.
I am taking this opportunity to praise my fellow Quebecoise on the naturalist approach she has taken to presenting her legs, as they seem to balance out the obscene spectacle her make-up artist and hair stylist have created that has enabled her to live comfortably and with others of her kind in Las Vegas.
Tu va, fille!
Links!
Draggerific
(She was probably a dance mom in her previous life)
Go Home
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Daily Thoughts from the YMCA Steam Room
Training Bra: Underwire Bra
is as
Hamster: Puppy
This analogy came to me as I bathed this evening in a sweet warm cloud of eucalyptus at the YMCA. As the sweat and vapour glistened on my feminine curves, I pondered the hamster wheel. I came to the conclusion that the hamster wheel is the most depressing invention known to suburban pet-domesticity and beyond. I do not care to elaborate on this today, but would rather encourage a discussion about this contraption.
I wanted a puppy or a kitten when I was five. My parents bought my sister and I each hamsters. Mine was brown, named Sarah. After her first grade boyfriend, my sister named her white hamster Neil, even though it was a girl (we were raised in a gender neutral household- NOT). My Dad is really cheap so he decided to economize on the caging issue. Consequently, Neil ended up eating Sarah. Sarah and Niel were my training bras to what I now have, which are kibble-eating, good-tempered dogs and underwire bras.
Today, I love my Java-puppy and my fashionably-engineered perky tits.
I continue to be saddened by the hamster wheel, and the more recent invention known as "the clear plastic ball with breathing holes." I wish hamsters were smart enough to be freedom fighters. Instead, they eat each other.
Links!
My Life Sucks
I'm too quick for these social constructions
is as
Hamster: Puppy
This analogy came to me as I bathed this evening in a sweet warm cloud of eucalyptus at the YMCA. As the sweat and vapour glistened on my feminine curves, I pondered the hamster wheel. I came to the conclusion that the hamster wheel is the most depressing invention known to suburban pet-domesticity and beyond. I do not care to elaborate on this today, but would rather encourage a discussion about this contraption.
I wanted a puppy or a kitten when I was five. My parents bought my sister and I each hamsters. Mine was brown, named Sarah. After her first grade boyfriend, my sister named her white hamster Neil, even though it was a girl (we were raised in a gender neutral household- NOT). My Dad is really cheap so he decided to economize on the caging issue. Consequently, Neil ended up eating Sarah. Sarah and Niel were my training bras to what I now have, which are kibble-eating, good-tempered dogs and underwire bras.
Today, I love my Java-puppy and my fashionably-engineered perky tits.
I continue to be saddened by the hamster wheel, and the more recent invention known as "the clear plastic ball with breathing holes." I wish hamsters were smart enough to be freedom fighters. Instead, they eat each other.
Links!
My Life Sucks
I'm too quick for these social constructions
Dick Measuring
If the world was about to end and all that was necessary to save it was to have a man run around a restaurant and touch all four walls after last call without stopping to engage in homo-erotic activities, two biceps with a typical man's conscience between them would fail to save us all from catastrophe.
Why?
Fucking arm wrestling.
A man cannot turn down the opportunity to reveal his inebriated sub-human strength to a crowd of grunting and hollering males.
It's like a pre-mating ritual, only there are no potential mates in sight, save for me, the alleged 'feminist' of the staff who has x-ray vision. From this tired, weary, behind-the-bar vantage point, I can still clearly see the penis size of each man who is in the process of trying to defend his Johnson's (and therefore his) so-called honour.
To my un-surprise, their dicks are all small.
Why?
Fucking arm wrestling.
A man cannot turn down the opportunity to reveal his inebriated sub-human strength to a crowd of grunting and hollering males.
It's like a pre-mating ritual, only there are no potential mates in sight, save for me, the alleged 'feminist' of the staff who has x-ray vision. From this tired, weary, behind-the-bar vantage point, I can still clearly see the penis size of each man who is in the process of trying to defend his Johnson's (and therefore his) so-called honour.
To my un-surprise, their dicks are all small.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Corporate Suits Love Me
So I am the best barmaid in the world.
Lonely white-haired men sporting Black American Express cards are drawn to me like moths to a flame.
I'm not sure what it is, but I get such a kick out of them telling me over the bar of their secret Panamanian financial hideaways and high-budget, yet low-caliber movie productions that I just beg them to go on about their loveless and relentlessly quantified lives. It's sad and I, the fair barmaid, fawn over them, topping their Greygoose-on-ices, making them feel young again.
I really do love my job.
Lonely white-haired men sporting Black American Express cards are drawn to me like moths to a flame.
I'm not sure what it is, but I get such a kick out of them telling me over the bar of their secret Panamanian financial hideaways and high-budget, yet low-caliber movie productions that I just beg them to go on about their loveless and relentlessly quantified lives. It's sad and I, the fair barmaid, fawn over them, topping their Greygoose-on-ices, making them feel young again.
I really do love my job.
Pony Tails Suck
So I went to Nuit Blanche this past Saturday, and opted for a Michelle Tanner-styled coif as I thought it would be 'cute.' As it turns out, they are repulsive and connote highschool more than studded canvas belts with seat-belt buckles.
I'm never wearing a high pony tail ever again. Even Miss Winter Muffin got more attention than me.
Welcome!
I'm doing this to channel my wit, creativity and snarky remarks, because self-indulgence is underrated. I'm hoping to become famous from this and be invited on to talk shows in Korea where I can be loved and adored by college kids everywhere without being gay and celebrity endorsing.
But then again I love celebrities and wish I was gay.
But then again I love celebrities and wish I was gay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
