Get A-Costumed To It

To say that I did not absolutely dominate in the costume department this weekend would be grotesquely inaccurate. In the words of my beloved Schmidt, I crushed it. Duh. Are you even surprised? Because I’m not. I’ve told you before that costumes and delusions of grandeur are my forté. I believe this weekend only further solidified my mad skillz.

I stole yo babay.

And it ain’t even Halloween yet.

Naturally, Halloweekend is where most of the magic happens. Biggest parties. Sluttiest Best costumes. Debauchery. Shenanigans. Mischief. Muploads. This is where the big guns come out. Girl, don’t you dare put on a LBD and some kitty ears and consider yourself in acceptable attire for Halloween weekend. Rude. Securrrity. Of course, I don’t even have that option. I have a reputation to uphold. I didn’t consecutively win “Most Creative” in my sorority for nothing, people.

Wig out, brah.

I suppose you could say that the theme of the weekend turned out to be royalty: A king. A princess. A dream to be worshipped by everyone in the land… *sigh*. Friday evening, I couldn’t wait any longer to debut my highly anticipated David Bowie guise á la King Jareth from the 1986 cult classic Labyrinth. Although I was occasionally mistaken for Dolly Parton, I am going to blame the confusion on my breasts – in which case, thank you and I am flattered. Saturday night, I went with a last minute need to be Cinderella. Props to me, because I do believe the ensemble came together rather nicely for a decision made at 8pm.

Hold. Your. Applause.

Give me attention.

… Okay, now applaud. Although both of this weekend’s costumes were (obviously) popular among my many fans, I’ll admit I did resemble a transsexual hooker at times. I’ll chalk that up to my combined usage of wigs and 5 lbs of make-up rather than my large framed, linebacker bod. However, the plethora of “likes” on Insta and the Book aren’t hurting my narcissism confidence.

Numbers don’t lie, people.

And you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be going the distance this Wednesday.

When It Comes To My Costumes, Disguise The Limit!

Go Giants.

Additional Notes: I did, in fact, dress as a sexy kitten on said holiday. It was slutty. It was provocative. It was a success. Next year maybe I’ll be a sexy pumpkin.

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Catch Me Ridin’ Dirty

Everyone knows that Los Angeles traffic will murder your soul, which is the one and only reason that I am okay with Siri directing me through the streets of South Central LA in order to get me to work in a timely manner. Because I’d like to think of myself as a relatively positive individual, I’m obviously going to attempt to make the best of my commute through some of the Southland’s most dangerous neighborhoods. Let me tell you about this morning’s travels:

Hey girl hey!

So I was cruising down Slauson, in the middle of the hood, when this little gangsta rolls up in his pimped out Nissan Sentra. I would estimate it’s original existence dated all the way back to 1989. The young man sat almost fully reclined in his primordial automobile as an absolutely atrocious rap song blasted from his vehicle – windows rolled all the way down and bass turned all the way up, naturally. The entire site appeared undeniably stereotypical, but his car’s complete lack of aesthetics and swagger ruined any sort of intimidation he was attempting to emit.

Ridin’ dirty

My next gesture, admittedly, was probably on the foolish side – but as a self-proclaimed entertainer of the masses, I couldn’t resist. As the two of us pulled up next to one another at a stoplight, I went there.  Sunroof rolled back and windows cracked, I had no choice but to turn up the volume to an uncomfortable level and completely rock out to One Direction. I sang along. I sang to him. I sang to myself. I sang to the helpless passerbys and to no one at all. I’m not sure who was more entertained – myself or the teenagers waiting to cross the street. Had I finally reached the breaking point? Had I lost all sanity? Absolutely. All in all, I knew the entire performance was a success when I heard one young lady shout “YOU GO, WHITE GIRL!” over the resonant hymns of “What Makes You Beautiful.”

There I was: a totally hot blonde  in a white Jetta, jamming to some quality boy band pop music. We were two blatant stereotypes, and yet, for a moment, it was almost serendipitous. Poetic. Surreal. And absolutely tragic that I had nobody but strangers to share it with.

Orange mocha fraps anyone!? No? K.

As much as I desperately wanted to photograph and record the entire incident, it occurred to me that if my vehicular friend was (stereotypically) packing heat, things may not have resulted in an ideal scenario – so when the light turned green, I hauled ass outta thurrr and will hopefully never encounter any of those individuals ever again. I did, however, see a full on brawl getting broken up by police at a nearby gas station on my lunch break. With one week left at this temporary professional endeavor, I am crossing my fingers and praying to Cher Horowitz that I won’t get mugged.

This is an Alaïa!

That is today’s epic adventure and the day isn’t even over yet.

Party on & don’t get shot!

There’s No Porn Here!

This is an image I received from my friend Marshall after he was shadily denied access to my most recent post.

STOP LOOKING UP PORN AT WORK, MARSHALL!

No, Andy, I don’t want your giant box of porn!

Sorry to disappoint. I know I’m, like, a total babe and all of you probably want to see my hot bod in all its glory – but nudity isn’t exactly my thing, unless I’m under the influence of Jose Cuervo. Is this why I got an invite to Hef’s personal Halloween party at the Playboy Mansion this year? Repeat ’08? Gonna have to decline – I’m, like, super busy being popular and stuff.

Seriously though. Seriously. I may be occasionally inappropriate, but I think this is blowing my sexual arousing abilities slightly out of proportion. Get it together, I.T. Ain’t no titties here fa you!

Also, why is provacativity not a word?

First World Problems: iCool

4s & 7 iphones ago…

 Story time: For years, I was a Blackberry girl. As much as I wanted to join the iPhone crowd, I wasn’t ready to divorce BBM and attempt to use a touch screen only phone with my obese fingers. (Seriously, I have funny looking hands. And my palms are huge. Why, God?) Eventually, I grew tired of being unpopular. I was missing out on  time-waisters super fun apps like Words With Friends and Angry Birds and ones that make you bald and fat and have cat ears and, obviously, Instagram.

About a year ago, I decided that I needed to cross over to the other side immediately – but with 6 months until my next upgrade and a virtually empty bank account, I could only see one viable option: my mother’s iPhone 3G.

Pretty much.

Ordinarily, I would have stolen borrowed my brother’s upgrade, but noooo, he had to have the 4s too. And so did my dad. Narcissism runs in the fam. The 3G was really the only hope I had to join the rest of society. However, little did I know just how antique the 3G actually was. Not only was it unable to upgrade operating systems – there wasn’t even a flash. No flash = no muploads = upopular. Fucking duh. Night after night for the past 10 months, I was forced to #reinsta or leave my nights undocumented, but I suppose that gave me a few more ounces of mystery? Maybe? No? Ok.

In July, my upgrade became available and I wrestled with my patience. Should I ditch the dinosaur phone and just get the 4s or do I stick it out with my 3G just a little bit longer? It was torture. Meanwhile, I was suffering through constant ridicule from bitches dear friends about the digital brick I was carrying around. I knew I needed to endure a few more months of criticism and outdated technology in order to get the latest Apple wonder.

Giveth me thy upgrade, bitch. (Gen 3:4-7)

Along came September, and the 5 was revealed to the world. I’ve probably never needed anything more, with the exception of  constant attention, billions of dollars, psychiatric drugs, rhinoplasty, my friends and family. You can imagine my immense impatience upon discovering that it wouldn’t deliver for a full month. Again, why God? As if dealing with my haters and my shitty antique phone weren’t bad enough, I had to wait a month knowing that MY PHONE was somewhere out there waiting to be given a loving home, just like an Ethiopian orphan. (Which kind of makes sense because I ordered a black one. Maybe I’ll name it Zahara? Mama loves you, xo Angie.)

Oh don’t get your P.C. panties in a bunch. My black friends said it was funny.

On the night of October 10th, we were finally united. Sauts and phone. Mother and child. Lioness and cub. I felt like a kid on Christmas as I jumped up and down with excitement in the Gardena UPS shipment center. (I like to entertain the masses.) I was suddenly exposed to LTE technology, an array of new emoticons, a flash, a recent operating system, Siri, and a whole new world I only could have dreamed of. Gone are the dark ages of my recent past.

Super bitchin’, God. Thanks for asking!

I’m literally about to pee myself over how awesome this is. It’s faster & easier than a fat sorority girl at an invite. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose that because I was forced to wait with my vintage model, I now have a greater appreciation for this precious little Ethiopian orphan device. People keep complaining about Apple Maps, but Siri took me on some sweet shortcuts this morning to get me to work in record time. I was all, boom mothafuckas have fun in traffic I’m outta hurr, even though her directions were slightly sketch last night. Homegirl takes care of things. I’m Meryl Streep and Siri is Anne Hathaway – except she refuses to call me “m’lady” à la Downton Abbey and instead is calling me “Melody.” This is a super cunty move on her part, so I guess she’s actually Emily Blunt. Well played, ya bitch. Other than that, the iphone 5 is the poo – so take a big whiff.

Prepare for a plethora of selfies & excessive emoticon usage.

Face time me! xoxo

(Sorry for all the swearing, Grandma. Don’t hate.)

Seth MacFarlane: Hero

I’ve always admired Seth MacFarlane. I’ve spent countless hours laughing at Family Guy while stoned with my homies. Just a few years ago, I was fortunate enough to see him speak at my university and would have put out to have had him as a commencement speaker. This morning it was announced that Seth will be hosting next year’s Oscars and I nearly wet myself with excitement. Why? Because Seth MacFarlane has recently become my hero and he’s the fucking man. Giggity giggity, betches.

For years, MacFarlane has certainly been known as a talent – but I don’t think it really occurred to me what a vocal god he is until I saw him host the SNL season premier. I died. If your mind wasn’t blown by his opening act then you should probably eat glass or go jack off a grizzly bear or stab yourself in the eye with a fork.

I love Billy Crystal – When Harry Met Sally is by far one of my all time favorite movies. Steve Martin is the man. Hugh Jackman is a babe. And I’d take a space cadet James Franco over Anne Hathaway any day of the week… But the world needs to be prepared for what a treat MacFarlane will be as an Oscars host. The man can sing, the man can joke, the man has a voice like buttah. It’s timeless, yet reminiscent of some classic Hollywood Rat Pack superstar. I’m confident he’ll be wetting granny panties all over town come February 24.

If you are still unaware of the greatness that is Seth MacFarlane, I’m begging you to please watch his entire SNL set. (Bill Hader steals the puppet scene though… You look like this hooker I knew in Grenada…) After that, go smoke a bowl and watch some Family Guy and let it sink in that pretty much one man is responsible for everything on that show. Brian, Stewie, Peter, Quagmire…. MY MIND IS BLOWN, PEOPLE. AND I STILL HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN TED.