There was a time when I would check Perez Hilton before I checked my email in the morning. After Perez, there was The Mail Online, then TMZ, then tabloids like The Mirror and The Sun, then skinnyvscurvy.com (celebrities on the scale). That’s before I’d even picked up the weekly gossip magazines. I was completely anesthetized to the trashy, bombastic, cliched language of showbiz rags: “baby weight,” “piled on the pounds,” “putting on a leggy display,” “celebrating her curves,” “cracks showing,”
I don’t take personal offense to being called an “ugly” Christmas sweater. Really — I don’t. I’ve watched enough of Oprah’s Master Classes to be comfortable with myself. I understand that our quirks are what make us beautiful, unique snowflakes, even if those snowflakes are doilies that have been stapled to your grandpa’s old sweater from Sears. There are other grievances that I’d prefer to address rather than trying to rebrand at this point, like the notion that I’m incurably itchy.
I must be very still. I mustn’t panic. I am unsure as to whether or not my stomach is about to rip apart like that one woman’s did in Aliens. The difference here, if that does happen, is that this will not be an alien crashing through my belly’s glass ceiling; it will be the Thanksgiving dinner that I just consumed. Oh god. Cannot think about food. But what else is there to do? A referee’s whistle blows on the TV. I wish I could shut this off but the remote is long gone and I can’t get up. My
Just when you thought there couldn’t possibly be anything more annoying than waking up, listening to voicemails, your roommate or refilling the Brita filter, here comes that text message you do not want to deal with. The one where you’d rather throw your phone out the window or pay a cat to lean on the keyboard so that it just types back ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh forever. But you’re an adult now. You know that it’s good manners to répondez
Armed with a first name, what my friend thinks he said his last name was — it definitely started with a D — and a team sport that he played back in college (though we do not know which college, nor year; my friend is a terrible reporter) I crack my knuckles above my laptop keyboard, roll my head, push my sleeves up and begin to get to work on my friend’s behalf. This is modern-day winging. Okay. We met him at the party that we went to last Saturday, which means he’s