My case for the cast of the Jersey Shore

When the concept of MTV's Jersey Shore first hit the public, I have to say I was a bit disgusted. I grew up in Philadelphia. I didn't need an MTV reality show to tell me that our next door neighbors to the east were ... how do I put this delicately ... trash. I had evidence enough every Friday and Saturday night in Old City when hordes of gelled up Jersey boys and girls crossed the bridge into our fair city to down some Red Bull and vods, flex their muscles, and yell obscenities as they got tossed from the bars.

SIKE! Put your pitchforks down, Jersey. You know I love you. My favorite place in the world is the Jersey Shore. Back when I lived in the Illadelph, I would spend every weekend of every summer there. I still go there on vacation. It's beautiful, family friendly, and an amazing place to spend a few weeks playing Pro Kadima on the beach during the day and relaxing with your entire family on the front porch at night after family dinner.

So when Jersey Shore came out laying claim that THIS is what the Jersey Shore was like, I was a little peeved when I had to spend the six months on damage control up here in Massachusetts explaining that NO not everyone in New Jersey fist pumps and NO not everyone in New Jersey poofs their hair and NO not everyone in New Jersey lives by the GTL credo. That's just Seaside Heights. I don't even consider Seaside Heights a true extension of the Jersey Shore. It's more like Staten Island with a tan.

So when the first season of Jersey Shore hit the air, I somehow managed to avoid every episode of the show for the entire season. That's right. I didn't watch a single minute. Anything I knew about Snooki or the Situation I learned from SNL spoofs and the evening news. I saw the pictures, I heard the phrases, and THAT was all I wanted to have to do with THAT, thankyouverymuch.

But then one cold winter night MTV decided to air the entire first season of Jersey Shore. And it just so happened that I was at a party that decided that THIS would set the perfect party tone to have on in the background for the entire night. Needless to say, we all drank ourselves stupid to numb the pain, but somewhere in between that first game of flip cup and the last drop of Borovicka, I managed to take in a little bit of season one of the Jersey Shore via drunk osmosis. My opinion hadn't wavered, but my curiosity was piqued.

So when Jersey Shore Season 2: Miami hit the airwaves, I decided to to sit my butt down on the couch and watch a single episode in it's entirety. For research, of course. This was no longer New Jersey. This was just a bunch of drunk New Yorkers released into the wild in the only part of Florida that isn't populated by blue-haired retirees and toothless alligator wrestlers. This was totally fair game. And you know what? It was amazing.

After one episode, I couldn't get enough. Snooki and J-Woww driving down the coast? The Situation and Paulie D getting stuck in the mud? Angelina comes back? I don't even know who Angelina IS but it's all just too good. I had to watch the second episode, then the third, and the fourth, until I finally had to admit to myself that I, Bridget Horne, was a Jersey Shore viewer. And you know what? I loved it.

Now, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and take this one step further. Not only do I now consider curling up on the couch with a goblet of wine and some Jersey Shore on the tube one of life's great pleasures, but I think that if I had the opportunity to spend one night with this group of people, it would be nothing short of spectacular. Go ahead. JUDGE ME.

And thus I present to you, my case for why I want to hang out with the cast of the Jersey Shore:

1) The Situation is fucking hilarious. Michael "The Situation" Sorrentino is one of the single most ridiculous people I have ever observed in my life. The only thing he loves more than himself is his mother's meatballs, but he's actually not a bad guy. His morals may occasionally be questionable, but who am I to judge anyone on their morals? I'm kind of an asshole. Plus, without a doubt, the Situation is the funniest person in this cast. He has more one-liners than a stand-up comedy act. You can pretty much count on the Situation to drop a perfectly timed zinger into every episode. Some of my favorites, thus far:

"You need to on your tip-top game with your GTL to stay FTD to get the girls to DTF in MIA."

"Ronnie doesn't want to give up his cookie, and that's Sam. You need to give up your cookie, son, so you can go find another one. I'm eatin' chocolate chip cookies every night, dawg."

"Ronnie is feeding steaming ALPO to Sam, on a plate, 'cause he's doggin' her so much."

"JWOWW ... I've seen her working out, doing combos at the gym ... and I've gotten a little taste of a smack myself. I have an idea of what Angelina's about to go through and it's like Rocky vs. Apollo. Rocky doesn't have a chance right now."

"Ron is at the club hooking up with grenades, which is a bigger ugly chick, and land mines, which is a thinner ugly chick, and loving life."

And I am loving life whenever words are streaming from your mouth, Situation.

2) The Jersey Shore loves family dinner. They might go out to the clerb, get black out drunk on vodka drinks, and have group make out sessions in the herpes-infested hot tub on a near-nightly basis, but they totally value that act of making a delicious dinner from scratch, gathering the troops, and all sitting down for a nice, hot meal while they discuss their emotions. And best of all? The boys are the ones who cook. There may be some more hair gel than you and I are used to in that spaghetti sauce, but it was made with love. And if there's one thing I relate to besides blacking out on vodka drinks, it's food and emotions.

3) I think if put in a situation that included lots of alcohol and Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi, the night would end with our arms around each other, gigantic fuzzy slippers on our feet, leftover cold chicken in our laps, and giggles on the beanbag chair while I touch her poof in inappropriate ways. When Snooki's on the screen, I know I'm going to be entertained. Because the only other cast member with one-liners more ridiculous than the Situation's is Snooki. When Snooki knocked over the chicken that the Situation had lovingly prepared for family dinner and this is what ran through her mind, I TOTALLY understood:

"My first thought was: I don't wanna clean this up. My second thought was: I just f*%ked up dinner. My third thought was: What the f*%k am I gonna eat?!"

Being as my life revolves around what the fuck I am going to eat, I get it. We're related. I love her. That is all.

3) Dramz, dramz, dramz. If there's one thing I'm surprisingly not bad at, it's dealing with drama ... that I didn't create. My porno/pro wrestling name would totally be the Peace Keeper. And if I can't deal with the dramz, I can at least laugh at it. Ronnie's cheating on Sammie? No note-writing necessary. Let's be big girls instead of dragging the did he cheat/didn't he cheat/should we tell her/shouldn't we tell her story line out for two episodes too many. Angelina's crazy? Let's all be up front about it. Cat fight in the kitchen? Eh ... let's let that one work itself out.

Pauly D, Vinnie, J-Woww, J-Woww's boobs. They all entertain me. And when you actually sit down to watch them for a bit, you realize how harmless they actually are. The only two I can't stomach are Ronnie and Sammie because a. Ronnie's obviously a coke head and b. Sammi's just a moron. The only obvious problem I can come up with in this "situation" (get it?!) is the whole clerb thing. On the rare occasions I have found myself inside a night club, I've felt more out of place than a priest in a sex shop. But what do I do whenever I feel out of place? I do what any red-blooded American would do: drink away the awkwardness and ultimately make myself more awkward! Because for me, drinking "away" the awkwardness always ends in one of three ways:

a. Everyone gets drunk together and has a great time.

b. In an attempt to break into a conversation with people I don't know entirely well and feel accepted, I say something that sounds funny in my head but comes out entirely inappropriate and/or racist.

c. I try to dance.

While the Jersey Shore cast is all about pumping fists and grinding hips all night, my dance skills are more on par with a seizure victim. So there's that.

So here's the next A+ concept for the next season of Jersey Shore: Drop a fair-skinned gal of Irish heritage who loves listening to jam bands and smoking pot into the Jersey Shore house and see what happens. Would the Irish girl walk away with giant, pink hoop earrings? Would the guidettes learn to take a chill pill? Would everyone get wasted and hug it out? One can only imagine ...

Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

Back when I was a wee college girl, I would spend large chunks of my summers hanging out with a bunch of dreadlocked hippies -- when I wasn't delivering your mail, that is. We did all those things that fucking hippies did. Concerts. Festivals. Admire street art. Drum circles. You know. The usual.

One of the bands that we had seen at one of those festivals was the John Butler Trio. And let me tell you, there is nothing quite like sitting in the grass in the scorching heat with your head spinning because you're slightly dehydrated with a beer sweating in your hand while you watch a band perform songs that just feel like summer. Songs that are totally meant to be heard while you're sitting in the grass in the scorching heat with your head spinning because you're slightly dehydrated with a beer sweating in your hand. You know what I mean? In other words, we dug it. And the other day when I heard this new John Butler Trio song on the radio I was all "awwwwwwww, my hippie babies." It took me back, man. It took me back.





Miss you, my blonde hippie chick mama.

Tweet

Hide your kids, hide your wife, and hide your husband cause they rapin' everybody out here

There are important moments in everyone's life that are never forgotten. Moments that shape you and the path of your life. Moments that give you purpose and passion. Your first kiss. The first time you ride a bike without training wheels. Your wedding day. The birth of a child. For me, that list got a little longer when I saw these videos for the first time.

Please watch this clip from a local news station:



And now watch this:



AHWUYAHDKGSGZZZZ IS THAT NOT THE MOST AMAZING THING YOU'VE EVER SEEN? ARE YOU NOT CRYING TEARS OF LAUGHTER AND JOY? ARE YOU NOT INFUSED WITH LIFE?

Wait, I need to amend that first sentence because apparently I DID forget the first time I saw these. But in my defense, I was busy ripping shots of borovicka and angrily doing inappropriate things with a walker. Typical Saturday night.


So when I opened an email from my friend Mary yesterday and I saw these "for the first time" again, I lost my shit and watched the Bed Intruder Song at least 65 times throughout the afternoon. And each time I clapped and laughed and felt my tiny little heart warm with love. Then when I got home and showed them to B with more excitement than a 6-year-old on Christmas morning, he was all "hey moron, Kelly showed us this last weekend. Oh wait, I believe this may have been the point of the evening when you were crashing the wheelchair into piles of garbage and rolling around in the grass in the backyard." Oh lolz! I knew that Chinese fan-waggin, red bandana-covered afro was familiar from somewhere! I just thought it was my fantasies. Thanks for the great times, Kel!

To be quite honest, I found a slightly inappropriate amount of entertainment from the original video clip. I am obsessed -- OBSESSED -- with Antoine Dodson. But the song? Oh the song, I can barely contain myself. This gives me more joy than those Keebler Chips Deluxe with rainbow chocolate pieces I recently discovered in SNACK PACK form. Because nothing says Big Girl like a pack of rainbow cookies to wash down that peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread that I make myself for lunch every day. Now where was I?

1) Chinese fan. Nothing says Imma fuck you up, rapist like a dude waving a folded up Chinese paper fan in your face.

I just had another four points to this list, but I deleted them all because they got rul, RUL serious about the epidemic of hopelessness in the projects and unreported crimes and standing up for your rights as humans but I had to nix all that because that's not really where I want to go today. So where is it, exactly, that I would like to go?

"Hide your kids, hide your wife, and hide your husband cause they rapin' everybody out here."

Oooooohhh gah it just feels so good. Thank you, Antoine. Thank you.

Tweet

UPDATED: Human Centipede: Nothing about this is normal

So by now those of you who are addicted to the internets have probably seen the trailer for Human Centipede and WOAH. If you haven't seen it yet, go YouTube that shit right now. I'll wait.

Done? Okay then. When I first watched it with my sister-in-laws this summer I had just scarfed down a plate a pasta, was well into my third glass of wine and was all "so is this a joke or what? Snakes on a Plane?" Because I like to compare everything in life with Snakes on a Plane. It can be used as noun, adjective, and adverb. Because of it's sheer ridiculocrity, it's relevant to just about every scenario. Got yelled at by the boss? That's so Snakes on a Plane. Tired after a long, traffic-filled commute? Snakes on a Plane. Singing karaoke at a bachelorette party with a penis antenna on your head? Snakes on a Plane. Mice in your attic? "I have HAD IT with these motherfuckin' mice in this motherfuckin' attic."

So naturally when I first saw clips from Human Centipede, I was excited at the thought of a potentially new Snakes on a Plane. Because why wouldn't I assume a movie about a rich European man who kidnaps tourists to sew them together mouth-to-ass for his own twisted enjoyment would be a big fat movie joke?

But after a while it dawned on me that this was no Snakes on a Plane. This movie was trying to pass for the next Hostel. American kids go gallivanting in Europe only to be abducted so other Europeans can torture them with tools you don't want to see anywhere besides the sterile surgeon's table and/or factory farm. [sidenote: I was once an American kid gallivanting through New Zealand staying in hostels on weekends and THANK GAH this was before I saw Hostel or else I wouldn't have slept for my entire time abroad. Scary movies ruin my life. Like the time my parents let me watch The Exorcist when I was in fifth grade and I was convinced my brother was possessed by Lucifer. Or the time they let me watch IT for my tenth birthday and I made my mom stand outside the bathroom while I showered for the next six months. Or the time B made me watch the Exorcism of Emily Rose in the middle of the day while we were playing Scrabble to distract me and if I woke up in the middle of the night at any point for the next three years I was convinced that the devil was at that moment entering my body. Yeah. So there's that.] Only this time? Let's combine it with everyone's love for medical oddity shows on the Discovery Channel and we've struck gold! Let's call it Human Centipede!

It's not that I intentionally look for medical oddity shows on the Discovery Channel, by the way. But if I turn on the TV and "The World's Fattest Man" or "The World's Smallest Girl" or a special about conjoined twins or the man born without arms or legs happens to be on, something flips inside of my brain and I just can't turn away. I'm fascinated. I sit and watch and ponder the seemingly mundane elements of life. How do they go to the bathroom? Walk up the stairs? Have sex? Go to school? What's their favorite color? Do they like dogs? Do they take vitamins? Do they love Zac Efron?

And then B walks in and groans and changes the channel because he "will not take part in exploiting other people's suffering for the sake of entertainment." And I'm all "it's not entertainment! It's knowledge! I am a student of the world!" And he's all "you're a sick fuck." And I'm all "unrelated."

That's what Human Centipede is kind of like. It's like Hostel went to the bar, got totally tanked, met the Discovery Channel, took her home, made sloppy, sloppy love and nine months later Human Centipede was born. And it is it one ugly baby. Because then I watched the trailer again and realized this shit not funny. This shit is not Snakes on a Plane. This shit is fucked up. And yet ... a little piece inside of me is kind of curious. A tiny fleck of light is calling out from my bowels. And I am both horrified and embarrassed to admit this.

Last Friday while enjoying a few drinks at our neighborhood watering hole, my friend turns to me and smiles.

Friend: So I watched Human Centipede.

Me: NO. WHAT?

F: Yep, fucked up. Want a shot?

Me: Woah, woah, WOAH. You saw Human Centipede?

F: Yep.

Me: OhMyGodIKindOfWantToSeeItAndThenBlogAboutItDoYouWantToWatchItWithMe?

F: You WANT to see it?

Me: Well, no, not like, for serious, but you know, kind of just to write about it?

F: You WANT to willingly watch Human Centipede?

Me: Keep your voice down! (Because who wants a crowded bar to know that you kind of want to watch Human Centipede even if it is FOR RESEARCH?)

F: Dude, I was kidding. You're kind of a sick fuck.

And B just shook his head. You win this time, Human Centipede.

UPDATE: I just searched on Wikipedia for this movie and this is what I read:

"The concept of the film arose from a joke Tom Six [the director] made with friends about punishing child molesters by stitching their mouth to the anus of a fat truck driver.[3] When approaching investors prior to filming, Six did not mention the mouth-to-anus aspect of the plot, fearing it would put off potential backers. The financiers of The Human Centipede did not discover the full nature of the film until it was complete."

And I'M the sick fuck? Now this kind of leaves me to believe that it really is all a big joke? A big, fat, truck driver anus joke? I would have paid good money (and by good money I mean a pack of gum and the remaining 13 cents in loose change that is in my purse) to be in the boardroom when the investors all viewed this movie for the first time. Because HOOOOOOO BOY I bet they wanted to stitch someone's mouth to a fat truck driver's ass after sinking all their monies into this cinema masterpiece. And that someone's name is Tom Six.

You win again, Human Centipede.

Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week

Josh Rouse or Paul Simon? Josh Rouse ... or Paul Simon? Josh Rouse? Paul Simon? Josh? Paul?

The first time I heard this song I was all "Paul? It that you?" And I felt a little weird inside when I realized it was actually Josh Rouse. I dig Rouse. I don't think he meant to step on Paul's toes, if he did. But I was still lukewarm, at best, over this song. Then last week it came on the radio as I was leaving work, driving down L Street with the ocean in front of me and the windows down and the people walking the dogs and playing with the beach balls and riding the bikes and I was on my way home to my little beach house and I was all "aaaaalllllllll riiiiiight." Just admit that it's catchy and it's over before you can get sick of it, okay?

Tweet

Bikinis, zucchinis, martinis, no weinies

From now on, I'm going to watch this video every single morning before I start my day and the world will be a better place.

Tweet

Need. Gatorade. IV. Stat.

This weekend three of my best girlfriends flew in from the far corners of Pittsburgh, Chicago, and England for a beach house extravaganza and all I can say is uuugghhhhhh. When that alarm went off at 4:30 this morning, I started re-evaluating my life because good gah almighty did I look, feel, and smell like a dirty dive bar bathroom floor. Needless to say, my dignity needs a good scrubbing.

Because we hail from across the globe, my girlfriends and I rarely get to spend time with each other. But when we do, WE DO. So when I woke up in my bed on Sunday morning wearing nothing but a bikini bottom with no recollection of how I got there and my last memory was crashing into a giant pile of garbage in a wheelchair, I have to say I wasn't entirely surprised.

Yesterday was one of those mornings filled with headaches, self-loathing, and egg sandwiches. You know, typical Sunday.

Me: what has become of my liiiiiife?

B: Come here for a second. Yep ... you're actually sweating booze.

Me: I'm never drinking again.

B: Uh huh.

Me: I mean it.

B: Right.

Me: Fine. I'm never drinking again until FRIDAY. Better?

B: Yep, that's a bit more accurate.

Now it's 7 a.m. on Monday. I'm wet from a humid run in the rain. I haven't showered yet. And I have the shakes. In other news, for the first time ever, I'm working in an office that requires an ID card to enter the building and it has made me completely paranoid. In all the other office buildings (one) in all the east coast that I've worked in (Philadelphia), there has never been any level of security, save locking the door if I was the last one out.

My current office building however, requires you to swipe your badge twice before you make it in to the actual office; once to get in the building from the parking lot and once to get in the office from the foyer. There is one desk between my cube and the door, so whenever someone who doesn't have an ID knocks to be let in, I'm frequently the one who answers. Naturally, every time someone comes to the door without an ID, I assume they're also going to bring in an Uzi and obliterate the entire office. I trust no one.

Copy machine repair man? Likely story. Delivering a lunch order? Do you have orders from the voices in your head to get stabby? Just filling up the vending machines? Please don't fill me with lead.

I always hear stories on the news about the dude who was fired for downloading porn on the company computer so he comes back the next day and goes on a shooting spree. And now I'm convinced it's going to happen to me. Why the sudden paranoia? I've never worked in an office that needed protection from outsiders before. Clearly this means there are outsiders who want to kill us all. Every time the door bell rings I feel the overwhelming urge to duck and cover under my desk. Partly because I'm lazy and don't want to walk to answer the door, and partly because I don't want to be the one to let the crazy killer in the building. Also? The people in TV shows who duck under their desks during shooting sprees usually are the ones who survive. Fact. I can't help it if my instincts for survival are stronger than my instincts for opening doors for people.

I'm not sure if it's the post-alcohol shakes that are making me jittery, the drop of body temperature from sitting in an office totally wet being blasted by the building's air conditioner, or the fact that I'm one of the only people in the office this early and I'm cowering from the front door. Either way, I need a shower about as bad as a hog farmer on bacon day. I'M OUT.

Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week on Thursday. Again. Because someone can't keep track of her days anymore.

Remember that time when B and I lived in Philadelphia and we were really awesome and we did really awesome things all the time like spend our Friday and Saturday nights in awesome little city bars listening to awesome live bands? Remember that? Yeah. Me too.

Well, one of those bands we discovered during one of those many, many nights spent drinking Yeungling on tap and sweating in crowds of other live music fans and nodding our heads and shuffling our feet was Eli "Paperboy" Reed. Because when we saw Eli perform I was all STOP THE PRESSES. DUDE IS THE SHIIIIIT. And was he ever.

And guess what, everyone. My favorite suit-wearin' nephew of Motown is BACK. And you know what? There are not many men in this world who can wear a gigantic pinky ring and STILL make me seriously consider naming my first child Eli. Eli Horne. Kinda catchy, no? Destined for greatness if you ask me.

COOOOME AND GET IT!



Tweet

Can a string of random thoughts in a car really be considered a post? Does the pope shit in the woods?

Yesterday on my way home from work I was dwelling on the fact that I felt like this week I've been suffering from a major case of the dreaded block. Don't worry, my BMs are as regular as ever. I'm tawkin' 'bout the Writer's Block. I've just come home from vacation. I should be bursting with things to write about. But you know how I know I had the best vacation? Because I did nothing but sit on the beach reading and talking to my mom all day every day. And every night was spent sipping cold beers with family. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Until all my brain matter seeped from my ears and I was left sitting in the sand, bronzed, happy, and totally relaxed. To cap off my week of vacation, on Saturday I went to a bachelorette party in Atlantic City and I still haven't been able to remember where I left my dignity. So you know, typical night out.


I know you're theoretically supposed to return from vacation all refreshed and ready for real life, so naturally I'm all "everyone shut up and leave me alone." I haven't been on the beach in FOUR days and I'm TOTALLY losing my tan already. GAH.

And now that another year's vacation has come and gone, my anxiety levels about the impending autumn are at an all time high. Yesterday a friend noted offhandedly that she "can't wait for sweater weather" and my head fucking exploded. After I recovered from vomiting on her feet, I wiped my mouth and was all "YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH. DON'T YOU EVER SAY THAT TO ME AGAIN."

It's August and I've already started petitioning B for one of those S.A.D. lamps. I live in New England now. That is a real condition and I will suffer if I don't have one. It is necessary. I work in a tin can. There are no windows. Pretty soon I'm going to be driving to and from work in total darkness. I could go DAYS without seeing any sunshine. DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO PEOPLE WHO DON'T SEE THE SUNSHINE? DO YOU??!!1!!?

As I was thinking about all of this in the car, my grip on the steering wheel tightened and cold sweat began to drip down my face. So I did what I do every time I'm in the car. I turned the music up and I screamed the words along to the first good song I could find. But for some reason -- likely because my anxiety radar was already beeping -- I became particularly self-conscious of passing drivers judging me for my singing. I have no air conditioner in B's car. I have to drive with the windows down. Hence, everyone gets a free ticket to the Bridget concert: LIVE.

EVERYONE sings in the car. If you tell me you that you do not, you are a dirty liar and I will not share my chocolate covered pretzels with you. And yet, I can't think of a time that I have ever witnessed someone blasting their car stereo and singing along at the capacity that I do on a daily basis. I've done it with other people, of course. But I've never noticed anyone else doing it alone.

Do many people notice me? Has anyone ever gone home, dropped their briefcase at the door, sat down for at the dinner table, loosened his tie and said, "honey, you would not BELIEVE the chick I saw singing along to Bonnie Raitt's 'I Can't Make You Love Me' on the way home tonight. I mean, she was just screaming. Like an animal. And just when I thought it was over, 'Superstitious' came on. And wow. Just wow."

I literally cannot ride in a car without singing. It's like a compulsion. And worst of all, I'm a horrible singer. If you lowered the volume, my voice would sound like a coyote being strangled to the tune of Justin Timberlake's "Love Stoned." Which is one of the reasons I listen to my music very loudly. Incidentally, this is probably one of the reasons I believe I'm going deaf at the tender age of 25.

But that's more of a Chicken or Egg question. Do I have bad hearing because I listen to music too loudly? Or do I listen to music too loudly because I have bad hearing? And gah help me if I'm listening to NPR. I crank that volume nob UP. The other afternoon I turned on the car and a report about little girls growing boobies too young blasted through the speakers so loudly I thought I was going to have a heart attack. And thus I realized, I have become my father.

All throughout my childhood I have memories of pleading from the back seat for my dad to turn off NPR and put on some music PAH-LEASE. And do you have to listen to "Car Talk" so LOUD? So yeah, there's that.

And now I've just decided that this half-assed ramble of thoughts I'm going to attempt to pass off as a legitimate post needs to end. Someone just take it out back and shoot it already. Clearly, my head is still in Ocean City. But at least I won't be able to hear your complaining. Tweet

Already? UGH.

And thus another vacation is drawing to a close. I'll be back to posting in a few days. In the mean time, why don't get out and get some sun. You look like shit. Tweet

Where my mother father's at?

I would rather take the bus than drive a minivan, but this song has me in STITCHES.

Tweet

This does not mean that your body is not a temple

This doesn't mean you're not loved. Did you lose your mommy? Did you lose your daddy? You are loved. And you're gonna find a new home real soon.



I have calories to burn! Tweet

WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT WHAT WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Ophelia so bad for yourself!



So instead of drowning yourself? You're gonna write a sad poem in your journal and move on. Tweet

I'M ON VACATION, SUCKAS!

But lest ye all come down with a serious case of Yellaphant separation anxiety-induced foaming at the mouth, I'll leave you with some of my favorite tasty tidbits by people who are far more entertaining that I will ever be. See you in a week, suckas.

Vacation day 1: Remember when I was obsessed with Drunk History? There's more!

At my next party, I'm going to demand that everyone get black out drunk and discuss important historical events. Tweet