Cigar Suave

Smoking has to be one of the most disgusting and unattractive habits out there. And that is definitely saying something, considering we live in a world where Jersey Shore has become a lifestyle and bull riding is a professional occupation. Personally I don't understand why anyone would want to suck on a rolled up piece of cardboard while simultaneously filling their otherwise healthy lugs with thick layers of tar. Personally.

I'm gonna say this once: if you think you're hot shit by smoking, you're not. But really though, you're not a badass, you're not mature, and nobody thinks you're sophisticated. At all. It doesn't really matter what gender, race, or nationality you are- watching as you hack up your inner organs while blowing smoke circles just isn't appealing whatsoever. I assure you that girls will not be flocking to make out with your sorry ass after you take a couple of deep drags from a Camel. That is a solemn promise via me, your go-to girl for all things pertaining to girls and life in general.

I think old black-and-white films are to blame for the whole premonition that smoking is cool. While watching Humphrey Bogart chewing away on a 1940s cigar in his steel-gray tuxedo, who wouldn't want to imitate his suave? Because let’s just admit that Bogart was the epitome of swag in his era. And then there was always the tall, slinky, bleach- blonde cocktail ladies that hung around him, refilling his wine glasses and being a general annoyance to anyone watching Casablanca. Like excuse me- what happened women's rights?! We are not subservient to you men, even if you are tall, dark, and extremely handsome.

And why are you putting out the example that the aforementioned cigar chomping men get all the hot ladies? Actually, why are you putting out at all? It's okay to tuck in “the girls” for a night. They're already trying to escape your extremely revealing and very body-hugging dress. Please, stay classy. Riddle me this: when you have an unplanned pregnancy, and cigar-man’s lovechild is being created in your previously skinny stomach, who is going to support you? Not cigar-man, that’s for sure. He’s too busy exposing all of his other mistresses to his second-hand smoke. Looks like you’re shit outta luck sweetie. Maybe you’ll have a better break next time! Or maybe not… chances are high that the child in your uterus is slowly but steadily creating his own love for cigarettes and will also become a heavy smoker. Have fun living with a chimney.

WordCount: 425

Touring The World In A Hot Air Balloon

Hair is such a weird and awkward thing. Scientifically, it is “any of the numerous fine, usually cylindrical, keratinous filaments growing from the skin of humans and animals” (Dictionary.com). I don’t completely understand what that means, but I like to pretend I’m an intellectual, so there you go. Anyways, the strange thing about hair is that the part that we can see protruding from our heads is dead. It’s all dead! Only the actual root of the hair is “alive” and growing. We (mostly only girls, but I’m trying to maintain political correctness and not be exclusive) spend hours and hours using heat and other methods to flatten, curl, and toss around this appendage of our body that is, technically, nothing better or more alive than stringy pieces of yarn.

I consider myself an average girl. What’s that? I’m prettier, more popular, and smarter than the typical girl? Oh stop it you, I’m blushing. Okay, okay, so I guess you could say I’m above average. But in terms of the time I spend spent on getting ready in the mornings, I’m pretty average. Usually I spend about half an hour in the mornings trying to get my frizzy locks to look semi-presentable. So if we do 30 minutes a day, six days a week (since nobody makes an effort on Mondays), that’s three hours a week. There are 52 weeks in the year, so I spend an annual average of approximately 156 hours just on my hair. 156 hours. And this is just the raw estimate, not including formal occasions, my frequent modeling sessions, and celebrity talk-show appearances. So rounding up, about 200 hours a year, for 80 years (the average lifetime in the United States), is 16,000 hours.

When I am at death's door, most likely due to assassination (all the attractive girls of the world die due to homicide by a jealous not-so-pretty girl), I will have wasted 16,000 hours of my life just on doing my hair. That’s equivalent to 667 days, or a little less than 2 years. Almost two years of my life will have been spent on something as menial as doing my hair. That’s two years that I could spend touring the world in a hot air balloon. Or curing cancer. Or feeding starving children in Africa. Or writing a How To Be As Pretty As Me self-help book. 

Basically, I have come to realize that I have crazy good math skills. I have also come to realize that doing my hair is a total and complete waste of time. From now onwards, I have pledged to shave my head, use the hair to make a wig, and then wear that wig regularly, instead of wasting time doing my hair. I just want to let you all know- I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing it for you. Because of me, you will someday be able to read all about my beauty secrets and not have to worry about hungry children in third world countries. You’re welcome.

 WordCount: 505

Good Luck, Ketchup-Kids

Mothering is no joke- take it from someone who babysits little devils on a regular basis. If you are planning on mothering a child (or, god forbid, multiple children), you better know how to do the damn thing. There are seriously days that I’ll go to the grocery store and see frosted-hair mothers in tight fitted Juicy Couture sweatpants yakking away on their cellular devices about their latest manicure/pedicure/shoe-shopping-trip, completely oblivious to their rowdy kids as they happily knock down soup-can towers and paint masterpieces on themselves with ketchup. The worst part is that the store clerks, who sometimes try to jump in and handle the situation, can never quite get control. Before they can even say “Excuse me, miss” momzilla has already whipped out her freshly sharpened claws and is preparing for attack.

One of the most irritating things is seeing the moms who yank their kids around on a leash. I don’t mean that figuratively. There are, quite literally, children who wear backpacks with a leash attached to the back. Their freshly-manicured mothers then hold on to the leash and drag their screaming children around wherever they please. The whole situation can all get very messy if the aforementioned ketchup body-paint hasn’t been cleaned up by this time. These mothers most likely also have electric chips inserted into their children’s heads that shock them every time they try to leave the house. The poor children probably get fried every time they accidentally walk into an electric fence (which most likely happens a lot, seeing as dogs do it unintentionally all the time, and little kids are much dumber than canines).

To be fair, I will give these mothers the benefit of doubt. I don’t know their lives. I don’t know what they’ve been through. Maybe they’re suffering from childhood angst. Maybe daddy never bought these mothers the puppies they wanted when they were younger. While this seems like a logical explanation for dragging around the fruit of your womb on a backpack-attached tether, I feel that someone should probably buy these troubled mothers a pet or something, so that they don’t have to treat their children like animals. Which leads to other questions- do these children eat out of doggy bowls? Do they lap up water from the toilet? The whole situation is a little confusing, and more than a little disturbing.

In the end, the mother you've been given is the one you have to deal with. There’s really not much you can do about being stuck with a momzilla, except for running away from home. And in the end, running away will most likely result in a complete electrocution, brought on by the deathly combination of an implanted electric chip and your neighbor’s invisible dog fence. My advice would be to just keep away from the razor-nails and buy your mom a yorkie. Good luck, ketchup-kids. 

WordCount: 480

Disney vs. Reality

Whether you were a wanna-be princess, president of the I Love Cinderella Club, or Sleeping Beauty’s biggest fan, we all religiously watched Disney princess movies growing up. With that said, I truly believe that Disney has psychologically screwed me over, scarred me for life, and broken my heart multiple times.

To begin with, I’m going to share with you what I had to learn the hard way: Prince Charming does not ride a snow white steed. He doesn’t sing songs to you, and won’t come to your rescue if you’re stupid enough to accept un-packaged food from a sketchy old lady in a torn black cloak. He also is not going to come around with your sweaty shoe on a velvet pillow to see if it fits your equally sweaty foot. Sorry to crush your fairytale dreams, but Prince Charming doesn’t exist. At this very moment, your potential soul mate is most likely in school, wondering what’s for lunch, eating lunch, or thinking about lunch tomorrow. Guys are just blissfully simple like that.

The whole “Prince Charming is fake” thing is definitely a let-down, but not nearly as crushing as the whole “princess beauty” issue. Some people claim Disney movies gave them unrealistic expectations about love. Fuck that, Disney gave me unrealistic expectations about life in general! When little girls grow up watching princess Jasmine sneaking up on the roof to seduce Aladdin in a skimpy belly shirt with hair as thick around as a large coffee cup, it makes an impact.

Somewhere in that little-girl brain a message is being seeded, telling the girl that it’s okay to be a whore! It’s okay to hang around and wait to get “rescued” by that cute prince who lives next door! It’s okay to dance around and sing to birds- nobody will judge you! So not true. How can we expect to create hard-working members of society out of these airheads, when all they seem able to do is their hair?

Luckily, I am to the rescue. There is a very clear solution to this issue: all we have to do is promote the addition of more realistic scenes into the classic Disney movies. Wouldn’t it be great if the beast ate Belle instead of turning into a prince and marrying her? It would teach kids a valuable lesson: don’t enter the home of complete strangers, especially when they are big, hairy, and live with talking teapots. Instead of waking up Snow White with a kiss, the prince should start talking about the gas prices nowadays. That should shock the little bitch awake. And instead of giving Ariel a pair of legs, Ursula should have given her flood insurance. She does live under the sea, after all.

WordCount: 457