Real Friends are WAAAAAAY Better Than Imaginary Ones

Me: Rachel, I need to cut my hair. It keeps getting super knotted.
Rachel: Do you know why?
Me: Because it's long.
Rachel: No. Your hairs don't like eachother, so they keep beating one another up.

I thought this was by far the funniest thing she has have said. Then, I remembered this little jewel.

This is Rachel learning who won American Idol.

No one should expect me to be normal with a best friend like this and a mom like, well, you know.

Crunchy Leaf, You Lookin Fine

Fall. I truly love this season. It means I can wear my 50 zillion cardigans with my pearls. People ask if I stole my style from Mad Men, then I look at them as if they deserve to be punched, because they are dumb, and tell them that 1952 came up with the style before Mad Men did. Ahhhhhh, the serenity of fall.


I also love CRUNCHY LEAVES. I love it like a platter full of gas inducing cheese. I would make out with those crunchy leaves if I thought it was mildly appropriate or sanitary. Whatevs. I rather live in lust. Nevertheless, you totally know what I am talking about, right? The leaves that fall (little pun, don’t be a playa hata) and are all crunchy when you step on them. I LOVE IT. I have never done drugs, but I imagine drugs are like stepping on crunchy leaves. THE ADRENALINE. Okay, I am calm. Phew. The worst is when you are walking all ziggy-zaggy (grammatically, I am five), so you can step on every leaf, and then you get that one leaf that looks crunchy, but it is soggy. UGH, such a downer. That’s what I assume someone in rehab would feel like.


Excuse me, Mr. Party Crasher, this is my moment. Not yours.



My almost adulterous obsession with leaves and appreciation for sweaters and pearl necklaces (the one’s from oysters, not weinies) are the things that eliminate the evil that comes with fall. What evil do you speak of, Lauren? Vampires? A new season of American Idol? All of the above? Don’t be silly. Vampires don’t exist and American Idol provides swoon-worthy Ryan Hotcrest moments. The evils I am referring to are holiday flavors and slutty costumes.


Holiday Flavors

It really peels my onion when I open my F-book page and every single status update in my newsfeed has to do with a “pumpkin spiced chai tea latte.” First, any beverage that sounds like it has a vagina and needs a purse is automatically on my “you are dumb” list. Second, I am pretty sure the only reason you people are obsessed with these dumb “seasonal” beverages is because it is SEASONAL. Unlike, the daily “Vanilla Chai Tea Latte” you brutally attack, like Lorelai Gilmore would a Pop-Tart. I did just make a Gilmore Girls reference. Pat on back.

Slutty Costumes

Yeah, I know. Almost every human has made some type of comment about slutty Halloween costumes. I have worn them. A lot of them. Boobs, butt, perhaps a flashing of the hoo-ha…been there, done that, hung my head in shame. My new motto: If Oprah cannot fit it, then it should not be a costume. Ladies, you do not need a Halloween costume to act slutty, we have alcohol and fake blackouts for that.

No one I know…Definitely not me: OMG. Did I really hook up with that guy, tell you that you are ugly, and slap a baby? Sorry. I was soooooo wasted.

Costume manufacturers have made slutty versions of every costume. Real police woman uniform= kind of looks like a lesbian, but costume police woman = kind of looks like the hooker the real police woman should be arresting. Real female firefighter = hides all the cellulite, but costume firefighter = you are probably going to come out of that burning building looking like a melted Chucky doll. Just sayiiiiin.

I think every woman who wears a slutty costume on Halloween should have to wear her costume the day after. All day. Hahahaha. President Obama, can we make this a law? Next year. After I wear my last slutty costume of the decade…

Momism: I'll Haunt You

This is not a recent conversation. This conversation has taken place on numerous occasions, such as dinners, holidays, and birthdays. It started when I was seven, and thank GOD, I was mature enough to look at my nutso mom and tell her she's barking up the wrong tree. What is this mysterious conversation? Here you go:

Mindel: I don't want to be buried in the ground.


Me: Mom, that has nothing to do with my birthday.

Mindel: You are a year older, Lauren, and I am not getting any younger.

Me: Oooooookay?

Mindel: Well, I don't want to be buried in the ground.

Me: Don't start with me mom.

Mindel: You are the meanest daughter.

Me: Mom!

Mindel: I can't believe you...your own mother...you can't even give me one little thing.

Me: Mom, I have told you a million times. I AM NOT PUTTING YOU IN A SHED.

Mindel: But what if I wake up. Do you really want me to wake up in the dirt or a wall?!

Me: Are you serious right now? You are crazy. All these nutty superstitions have made you insane.

Mindel: Fine! You don't want to keep me in your garage, then I am just going to haunt you. Forever.

Me: You are the creepiest person.


I know that there are some very serious issues here, like a fear of death or the fact that my grandpa told my mom he would be hiding in the closet when he passes, so if she ever does anything bad he will catch her. But, honestly, WHO ASKS TO REMAIN IN YOUR GARAGE AS A PRECAUTION??? Gosh, I love her.

Can I Get a Slice of Douche?

Pizza has become soooooooooooooooo boring. The cheese, the tomato, the bread...I mean, it is the prude of food. Pizza needs to remove that promise ring and create a new slutty image. That new pizza whore is Ed Hardy.

Wait. Wannabe douchey pizza say whaaaaaat?

You huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurd me. Ed. Hardy. All over your face. A San Francisco pizzerria is now making pizza that just might buy you a drink, roofie you, and leave a trail of rhinestones on your bedroom floor.  Exhibit A:


Mirror mirror on the wall,  who's the douchiest
 pizza box of them all?

Get it while it's hot brah, because the pizza box with a rhinestoned eagle on it is a limited edition. Whaaaaat? That means you only have 10,000 chances to get an STD from food.  THE HORROR.

When I Grow Up

Remember when adults used to ask "What do you want to be when you grow-up?" and you used to say something so awesome like astronaut or archaeologist or Heidi Fleiss. Don't judge. Homegurl had an E! True Hollywood Story. Then, all of a sudden you're in your junior year of high school with sexy acne and ridiculous insecurities and the only thing you care about is your prominent buttcrack hanging out them slutty low-rise jeans. Baby got more back than a wall at a high school dance.

 

               

Now that you've figured out that becoming an astronaut requires good grades and a lack of make-out sessions with your BF, you decide to go all Robert Frost on the parentals and take the road less traveled. "Mom, I don't want to go to college. I want to be an ARTIST." Yeah. You might as well tell your parents you're preggers with Roman Polanski's baby.

Don't you worry your little touchas off. I have developed a pretty decent argument for not going to college: "Snooki went to college."

U Kan Go To Kawledge Just Lyk Me

The Reason You Suck...

...is because you release grades at 4pm on a Friday afternoon. That means I can check grades and then:

• go drive my car off a cliff on the way home from work
• go to happy hour and have 10 too many puke-tini's
• start crying in the library

Thank you for providing me with so many wonderful options.

I Profess My Love

I am not the type to have crushes on my professors. Usually because they are women, they are just so incredibly awful that I want to throw bologna at their faces, or they don't have that typical mountain man look I love. Of course, there is an exception to my taste and I call him Smithypoo.

I am kind-of in love with my Constitutional Law professor. It's not the "I love you and I am going to violate your 4th amendment right to privacy by peering in your window with my night vision binoculars" type of love. I mean...I would never do that...nope...ahem. He is so nerdy and adorable with his ADHD and inability to finish a sentence properly. I just want to pinch his cheeks. He's like a Steve Urkel and Porky Pig sandwich. Not Kosher but adorable.

Best part? Everytime he calls on me he awkwardly looks right above my head. No. Seriously. He never looks me in the eye (probably because he's worried he'll get lost in the puddle of my large black tar pupils) and instead stares directly above my head. Maybe there is an invisible fat baby that only he can see, sitting on my head. That totally explains the headaches. Whattup wit dat Fat Baby?

The other day, I had to miss class. So, of course, I e-mailed Smithy-Poo to get the assignment and what I missed. His reply, and I quote, "Sorry, you couldn't be here. The class missed you." I know, right? He totally loves me.

Last, but not least, he looks like Max who owned The Max on Saved by the Bell. Oh. Is that your heart going pitter patter too now. Back off bitches.