Roommate wanted: Two guys with an extra bedroom in our awesome bigass loft looking for a roommate to sublet starting May 1st. You should be blonde, athletic, smart but not too smart, tan but not too tan, hot but approachable, quiet but laugh at our jokes, fun but simultaneously laid back, Catholic but not really, sweet but secretly nasty, into sports, beer, adult swim, michael bay, cleaning, cooking, listening, classic rock, blow jobs, hand jobs, rim jobs, HAIRLESS BODY, double-jointed, big mouth but a quiet voice, big tits but a tight little ass, perfect legs, perfect face, BRUINS FAN, love kids, make less money than us, collect NFL jerseys, wear NFL jerseys with boy shorts and knee socks while watching football on the couch, scratch that: into watching football naked on the couch, no wait: into getting pounded while we eat a taco off the small of your back while watching football in front of the couch, own no Uggs, know every Godfather movie, cool with dogs, cool with weed, cool with porn, cool with everything, ever, incapable of burping, farting, puking, whining, dreaming, asking questions or producing any weird smells, be into practicing naked yoga, practice no instruments, good at pool, good at touch football, good at keg stands, have a hot sister, super into tailgating, hate the fucking Yankees, have no issues, no chick movies, no crying, no baggage, no drama, no ex boyfriends, no gag reflex, 105lb max.
The thing about not living in NYC when all your friends do is that sometimes you have to rub salt in the wound. Because yes, okay, I don’t live in the epicenter of the universe. Yes, my island doesn’t have “museums” or “subways” or “culture” or “people who aren’t drunk and leathery” or “real life of any kind, at all, like anything, anything other than people who bring their pet iguanas into Home Depot” but you know what?
I go to work in a bikini when I want to, because “work” is “freelance jobs I scrabble for so I can pay for rum.” So have fun with your “5 star restaurants” and your “sports teams,” friend. Enjoy your “401k’s” and your “health insurance plans” and your “fitted blazers paired with printed blouses” and your “Greek food.” I MAY MAKE LIKE 100 BUCKS A WEEK AND LIVE IN A HOUSE THE SIZE OF A CONCH SHELL BUT MY ASSISTANT IS A DOG AND IT’S CASUAL FRIDAY ALL WEEK, BITCHES. ALL WEEK. PASS THE COCONUT.
My 12-year-old cousin, Madeleine, dressed up as a Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Flo the Progressive Insurance Representative for her Halloween costume this year.
When I was 12, I went as a sexy Spice Girl (Ginger, of course.)
Girls today: better than we ever were.
I blame Tina Fey. Somehow, this is all her fault. I can just feel it.
Mars will do anything to keep me from working from home.
Also this is my cat. This is my cat, and my weird flannel leg. SEND GIFTS, INTERNET PARAMOURS. I AM YOUR QUEEN.
William McGregor Paxton
The String of Pearls
Me literally every morning.
Somewhere in between this photo being taken and us scampering backwards across fallen trees and moss-covered boulders as quickly away from the waterfall as possible, the sound of a cocked shotgun ringing in our ears, it occured to me: When FDR said that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself, he probably wasn’t being charged by a five hundred pound bear at 30 yards.
Alaska: fun till it kills you!