Heartburn..

I will never say anything bad about Mickey Rourke ever again. Go see The Wrestler.

Euna...

Remember how I posted a pic of the contents of my bag and you were dismayed because I started using cheapie make-up? There is seriously something wrong with my  brain. I re-organized my closet for the first time since moving and I found this huge stack of Sephora and Valentino boxes…packed with the $2500-3500 worth of cosmetics and skin care products I FORGOT I HAD BEFORE I MOVED.

In the words of Dolly Parton, it costs a lot to look this cheap.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

You’re probably wondering why I, an adult of the Jewish persuasion, am writing to you after all of these years of calling bullshit on your mere existence. Here it goes: as a kid, I was encouraged to write to my older relatives, not to seek money per se, but as a means to build some sort of intergenerational bridge. The relatives read my long, painfully-written letters about ballet camp or Nancy Drew and responded with a hasty “Love, Aunt So-in-So” and a check for twelve dollars. Now that I’m nearing thirty, I don’t even merit the “Love, Aunt So-in-So” part, thus, you’re my last shot.

It’s been a pretty good year for me with this new house, great friends, and thankfully, a mother who magically recovered from the kind of pneumonia I suspect killed Bernie Mac. Obama won the election even though he’s currently fucking things up with a bizarro world economic team and Rick Warren. Seriously, Santa, that means Barack Hussein Dreamboat Obama somehow believes in the “Purpose-Driven Life.” I know, dude. Stop laughing. No, I don’t care if Purpose-Driven isn’t hyphenated, it’s lame.

However, I’ve reached a bit of a stumbling block: I hate whatever job I’m forced to take. My new job requires me to be the social worker at a nursing home that used to be a strip mall Pizza Hut. I couldn’t make this shit up, Santa. It pays a third of what I used to make and I had to fight tooth and nail to get it. To clarify, I enjoy working with people whom require constant convalescent care, but I DO NOT WANT MEGA-BUMMER JOBS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE JUST BECAUSE SOME DIPSHITS ON WALL STREET, NAFTA, AND EVERY PRESIDENT SINCE NIXON decided that’s just “how things are gonna be.” Also, there are residents in this place younger than I am who’ve lost limbs/faces/organs in the War on Terror. C’mon, Santa, can’t you make things a little less terrifying?

I want a job that’s actually fun or pays to be clever. This can’t be too difficult to find, right? And so what if my resume looks like I’ve done a lot of job hopping? I got an AA, a BA, and an MA in the last eight years and I’ve moved seven times. Santa, maybe you could just give me a solid reference and we’ll just pretend I “consulted” for you for the past decade. It’ll be our secret. Everyone else has a selective resume. Oh, and this job needs to have health insurance that’s actually worth something…and a cost of living increase. Then I will be able to afford the few material things for which I was originally going to ask (just in case: the Viktor and Rolf lashes, the boots about which I won’t shut up, and a really well-made hat.)

If you work on a quid pro quo basis, I’m willing to do the following: I’ll stop guilting people into liking me and acting like a spurned lover all the time just because I find it entertaining. I’ll only drink on weekends. I’ll learn how to do something elaborate like fireplace-building. I’ll create nativity scenes for the blind using nothing but elevated language. I’ve already stopped smoking (cigarettes) and I recycle like a fiend (even though the city makes me do it.)

Therefore, let’s work something out, Santa. Unlike your brother-in-anagrams, Satan, I believe that any deal I strike with you will be one of equivocal respect or whatever that means.

Your friend,

Esther

I believe.

P.S. If this job sitch doesn’t work itself out in the next couple of months, I will consider writing to Satan.

No real desire to post lately

No real desire to do much at all.

Have some of this mirrorball vodka. That ain’t a metaphor, baby, it’s for sale.

Cherry Bomb

I hate myself so I read this bizarre guide for tweens about how to fuck rock stars and be a “kick ass chick” called Cherry Bomb. Since I’ve been with my fair share of musicians, which is to say that I don’t think I’ve been with more than five people who weren’t musicians, I thought I’d chime in to tell you what utter bullshit pervades this book. Here are ten rules you should follow if you want to make the lonely life of fucking rock dudes your primary job:

1. You need to come to terms with the fact that you will never, ever, ever, I mean EVER be his girlfriend. That’s right. It ain’t gonna happen. Rock “stars” have three types of girlfriends/wives: famous women, plain girls from “back home” who don’t care if they cheat, and dudes.

2. He has an STD. No question about it. Oh what, you think you’re the first road pussy he’s had since departing four months ago? HAH. So, unless you are a total masochist, insist on a condom or two. And guess fucking what? Heroin and speed are back in a major way! That brings me to 3.

3. Guys on the road are like truckers. They have to stay up all day and night to go to Bumfuck, Idaho. Plus, they’re not exactly originals. They worship people like Iggy Pop and Johnny Thunders, which means (unless they’re Christian Hardcore dudes) they use. If they use, you’ll use. Do you know how I know this? Because I use, that’s why.

4. Don’t take it personally. Oh, he played you a demo in the back of the bus or he strummed three chords of a song about a girl who broke his heart? That’s an act to get you to blow him.

5. Taking a load in the face isn’t a feminist statement. It’s just a statement that you’re in a really low place right now.

6. Don’t fuck promoters. They’re just locals who have absolutely no say who goes where or why. Seriously, they’re like guidance counselors, lowest folks on the totem pole. If you want to “get on the list”, go to the source.

7. Unless they’re the Rolling Stones or a band of that caliber, face it, you’re not that into them, anyway. This was a huge problem when the third wave of hardcore was around in 1999-2002ish. Suddenly, all of these girls were huuuge fans of these chugga chugga asshole bands. We’re girls. We’re secretly into  Fleetwood Mac and Mariah Carey. Face the music.

8. If you do decide to drink a lot, drink like a guy. You’re going out to score, not to meet your girlfriends and discuss Manolos. Appletinis, weird blue shit, and umbrella drinks are expensive and they don’t fuck you up in a proper way. Shot and a beer keeps it clear.

9. Have your own life and friends. Don’t abandon your girlfriends to go backstage or onto a bus unless they’re either doing the same thing or making other plans. Contrary to what you may think at the time, your Fall Out Boy fansite has little to do with your future.

10. Once you’re over 25, you’re too old for this shit. I’m older than 25 and I’m too old for this shit. Ever go to a show and see a woman your mom’s age wearing a belly shirt, platform flipflops, and 7 Jeans drinking a scorpion and flashing her tits after every song? That woman isn’t your mom’s age. She’s about 32.

If you're "not that into" me

or you’re a “natural loner”….DO NOT FUCK ME FIRST. DO NOT WASTE MY FUCKING (pun intended) TIME.

It’s weird when a period of failure after failure subsides for a split second and you think that perhaps, you’ve reached some sort of equilibrium. In other words, you’re breaking even for a minute or two and maybe things will be alright.

NOPE.

It’s all just a weird lie.

The best spam I have ever received:

“Replica Watches are inexpensive and sometimes give the impression that you are wearing the Genuine Rolex while you are catering the posh cocktail party.”

i don't want to hear those three words

i want to hear four words: “how was your day?”

or “how do you feel?”

or “i actually give a solitary shit about how you relate to the world.”

is that some sort of crime?

new gang gang dance tomorrow!

anyway, I was reading a faaaaamous fashion blog (har?) where one of the editors claimed that she perfected her own “smoky eye” make up. um, from what i saw, she didn’t and her advice on the subject was ehhhhh dubious. so, from years of drug abuse and knowing a whole boatload of models, trannies, and grannies, here is how to do a “smokey eye”:

the great part about the smokey eye is that you really don’t need expensive cosmetics, but you do need black pigment that will adhere to your skin. you need three basic colors for this:

a deep black

a matte nude shade

an ice white with a touch of shimmer. if your natural skin color is reddish, get white with a wee hint of green in it.

a thick black kohl pencil (benefit bad gal)

cheap-o black liquid liner (from the dollar store)

mascara (i use too-faced lash injection)

using your fingers is actually a vital part of the process, but use your ring fingers as they’re the weakest fingers on your hands. i avoid using expensive brushes for this look and stick to foam applicators because the process requires a lot of blending.

here we go: dust nude shadow from your lashline to your brow bone. at a 45 degree angle, push the kohl pencil to the exact base of your lash line and draw a straight line from the inside to about two millimeters beyond the outer edge of your lash line. use the edge of a foam brush and push the black pigment over the line, under the first fold of your eyelid. use your finger to smudge the two lines together. push another soft line of black pigment underneath your brow bone. on a fingertip, dot the white between your tear duct and nose on each side. if you think your eyes look too small, dot the white directly under the arches of your brows and at the corners of each eye. line your eyes with liquid liner, adding a little extra over sparse lashes. line the water lines of each eye and then add tons and tons of mascara. trust…that’s a smokey eye.

Rachel Zoe….you are not 37. That would make you nine years older than I am. God bless being pudgy, I look like I could be her grandchild.

(More on this later. There’s a method behind such madness)

Are you kidding me?

I have strep throat and pneumonia.

Sure, I feel like shit, but hearing that from my doctor only makes me feel worse.

Not to get too fashion bloggery

but today was such a good shopping day. See, this ice hockey rink holds a rummage sale every year and I actually wind up with five to ten shopping bags full of insane garbage for like eight bucks. Some of my best pieces come from this thing. My wacky Ralph Lauren logo blazer with the weirdo pocket square? Check. My Janes Addiction shirt with real methhead pit stains? Check.

My running theory is that one of the hockey moms was a total junkie in the early 90s and she’s carefully slipping pieces of her old wardrobe into the donation pile. Today, I scored two long black ruched dresses I plan on wearing over leggings, a funny Oscar de la Renta peach skirt suit, gobs of scarves, and black boots one can only describe as either “punk as fuck” or “literally rotting away.” Oh, and Euna, I got you a very familiar shirt. Don’t worry, I’ll wash it before sending it.

Then, after watching the world’s worst movie (best movie?) about global terrorism, Body of Lies, I had the brilliant (stupid) idea to go to the mall for the first time in a year. With the cunning use of Forever 21’s accessory department, a slouchy cardigan, and a new pair of skin-tight black jeans, I think I have about five new outfits for the fall.

I love the smell of autumn. I hate the smell of the hooker perfume I tried on at Nordstromsies. Also, can we make Ed Hardy go away? Discuss.

My friend Barrios is a genius

Whenever I need to be reminded of this, I read the last couple sentences of his “about me” section:

I had to leave that place, so I shed my body and became a four-dimensional sphere for an eternity, encompassing everything that had ever existed or will ever exist. At the same time came my return to a fleshy body. Once again bound to time and space, I rediscovered the joy of feeling. That was 500,000 years ago, before the epoch of man.

Barrios IS peyote.