I know. This is something we’re not supposed to admit. I say “we” because you do it too.
Cyber stalking. Cyberstalking. Is it one word or two? I’m going with one from here on out because… um… regardless:
Cyberstalking: America’s pastime (like it was ever really baseball anyway).
I used to think the biggest consequence of cyberstalking was being thought of as weird or creepy, or, more rarely, having the person you’re cyberstalking catch you in the act and having them ask, “Why is my name in your Google search bar?” and you’re like, “Uhhhhh I was just testing my search engine to make sure it worked” and they’re like, “I don’t believe you” and you’re like, “Well you shouldn’t be looking at my computer screen anyway” and they’re like, “That’s my computer and this is my house and how the hell did you get in here?!”
Ahem. Anyway, since I openly admit I am both weird and creepy, the stigma of cyberstalking someone (usually someone I’m attracted to) rarely keeps me from doing it. Not anymore though. Never again.
Or maybe always again.
That probably doesn’t make sense to you. Allow me to explain: (more…)
I’m sick. Since I’ve been sick, I’ve been watching plenty of TV, which means plenty of commercials. So, it is with great disgust that I give you the Worst Commercials of 2010:
1. Those F*CKING OLD NAVY MANNEQUIN COMMERCIALS: I hate these commercials with a burning passion. I really hate the one where they’re suddenly naked (um, ‘scuze me, Old Navy, but aren’t you supposed to be family friendly?), but there’s one I hate even more than that mannequin nudiefest. It’s the most recent addition to the abomination ads, the faux sitcom one where the creepy, lifeless-eyed mannequins move into a house together and are greeted by their flesh-and-blood real human neighbors. There’s a laugh track. I hate laugh tracks. Except for this one. My biggest beef with this commercial lies within the total lack of reality. No, I’m not talking about how mannequins gained the ability to talk and sign a lease. We all knew it was bound to happen at some point, as Wes Craven pointed out in his scariest movie ever, Mannequin. I’m talking about how mannequins from different racial backgrounds managed to live in harmony within one house. The only way this situation is plausible is if they were on The Real World: Mannequins. As far as I know, The Real World doesn’t have a laugh track, so Old Navy has no excuse for this horrible, terrible, disgusting, appalling, atrocious, frightening, deplorable series of commercials.
…Unless you count DayQuil.
1. I sang to my boyfriend’s cat, Shadow. I sang him a ballad entitled “Shadow” to the tune of Frère Jacques. The lyrics consisted of “Shadow, Shadow, Shadoooooooow”.
2. I performed a questionably seductive* dance with a small bottle of apple juice in the middle of Kroger.
To take the wrong road to Sherman, Texas, is to take the right road, because there’s really only one road. On the off chance you take a wrong road that turns out to be a wrong road, you’re not on the Sherman road and this road will lead you to the middle of nowhere. Actually, this wrong wrong road may be the right road because Sherman is in the middle of nowhere, and two wrongs make a right, right? Unless the right road is a one-way road, of course, then the right road is the wrong road and you’re screwed because you should be on the wrong road because it’s right.
Maybe there will be a connecting road between the wrong road and the right road, but is this road right or wrong, or both? Is it the right wrong road or the wrong right road? Are you wrong or right for taking it? If you start on the wrong road but it turns out to be the right road, it’s the wrong road, but it’s the wrong wrong road so it’s the right road so you switch to the right wrong road and then realize you should be on the wrong right road, so you get on the right road by means of the right wrong road but it’s not the right road because it’s the right road, and you need to be on the wrong road but now you’re on the right wrong right right wrong road, will you ever get to Sherman?
From left to right: Pam, Jessica, Jaqueline, Gia, Amber, Courtnee, Leanne, Erica, Chrissy
Hi, I’m Sara, and I’m a VH1 reality show addict.
My latest shameful addiction is/was You’re Cut Off, the show where actresses desperate for a big break—I mean, girls who can’t control their spending—are “fooled” into living in a middle class house with boring/ugly décor and be all normal and stuff.
Erica: A Barbie who somehow came to life and escaped the Mattel factory despite her enormous breasts weighing her down. People think she’s dumb, but they don’t know the whole story. She acts like an airhead to avoid revealing top secret Mattel information and being hunted down by zombie Ruth Handler’s army, the Masters of the Universe.
Gia: A hookah junkie who won’t change her own daughter’s diapers. Her clothes are allegedly expensive, but it looks like she grabbed them out of the $3 bin at L’Patricia.
Jaqueline: Likeable, but a little ugly, so she’ll never really make it in the music industry, which she obviously went on the show for. Her voice isn’t good enough to make her some kind of Susan Boyle, either. Sorry, Jackie. Maybe you should try becoming a professional Bikini Blast workout trainer, even though your patented Bikini Blast workout, which must be done in stilettos, is only 20% likely to get you in shape as opposed to the whopping 80% chance of spraining your ankle.