tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27158918324007794012024-03-05T20:12:31.803-08:00Life of Cringetequila tweets and embarrassing feats
@lifeofcringeUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-30244797562801179612019-10-07T08:07:00.000-07:002019-10-07T08:28:59.706-07:00Fuck Me, Nine Years Flies By!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhL9h8uYDXVcfOFk1juDkB51kIlETVoYakgLCOsVYXwRJs2a8UY1lB86u8vnmTT8U1KA8OLxV5Gx6NstQB86wKuHNsquVvIfURfUcfi6YxJuI4SxvTIc8fBdIkIY5VBQxp4-EkvGTv-3h7/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhL9h8uYDXVcfOFk1juDkB51kIlETVoYakgLCOsVYXwRJs2a8UY1lB86u8vnmTT8U1KA8OLxV5Gx6NstQB86wKuHNsquVvIfURfUcfi6YxJuI4SxvTIc8fBdIkIY5VBQxp4-EkvGTv-3h7/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a>Hello internet people! Going to give this shit another shot.<br />
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I am back and I have written a book and while I sit here drinking day wine for the foreseeable future, I need to do some shit to distract myself and to avoid sending any cringe-worthy emails to my agent or potential editors, demanding as to WHY THE FUCK THE BOOK HASN'T SOLD YET.<br />
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So yes, clearly, I am calm. I am calm, composed and collected and now, nine years on, back in my homeland of England living with a cat who actively has tried to kill me on several occasions. As a result, my days are spent avoiding the cat - who, despite being blind, has managed to accurately navigate itself around the house as it chases me like a demonic torpedo. No joke, the cat has actually scarred me for life on my feet and I will never be able to wear shoes that are open on the top of my feet without looking like I have been struck by lightning. It's also scraped at my wrists too so that's been a fun conversation starter with any new person that I meet when I feel the unsolicited need to clarify that I am not self-harming and am, in fact, a victim of the hell-goblin who resides in my house, shits in my kitchen, and can barely tolerate more than two seconds of interaction with a human before launching into a kamikaze attack. I can only hope that living in constant fear for my life is a solid character-builder.<br />
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But anyway, despite living with a furry satan, I am waiting for the sale of my book which, while I want it to be published, may directly result in my own demise due to the fact that I am an arsehole and have included not only my own most cringeworthy moments, but also the most cringeworthy moments of others. I have, of course, changed the names of the people involved, but I am pretty sure that my ex-boyfriend will be HIGHLY aware that he is the only person who has shat on my floor while dancing naked. As I am HIGHLY aware that he made me look him in the eye and promise that I would never utter that story to another living being, and that publishing a book that I hope to reach hundreds of thousands of people is somewhat the opposite of that. <i>Somewhat.</i><br />
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So, anyway, while I avoid cat attacks and try to keep busy by avoiding harassing anyone who may be potentially responsible for my future career as a writer, I will endeavor to continue on my quest for cringe.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-70174865972763160692010-07-31T04:39:00.000-07:002010-07-31T05:31:43.246-07:00Your Dignity Will Take a Beating When You Are Tequila Tweeting!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjianDi2NR6TSkrk0xhXL6MjxGqfqD6Pyuk43ih0qZlYVLWrNUBuhVsM4ZSSOlVPIAMxcd4NcYmTh1aWRigZDNxXyajW_3CWxOHWgfEl-TGGf7Uu4mH1TswcPgrofNuo8AKvgjM59YOUeuz/s1600/dorries_drunk_tweet1-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjianDi2NR6TSkrk0xhXL6MjxGqfqD6Pyuk43ih0qZlYVLWrNUBuhVsM4ZSSOlVPIAMxcd4NcYmTh1aWRigZDNxXyajW_3CWxOHWgfEl-TGGf7Uu4mH1TswcPgrofNuo8AKvgjM59YOUeuz/s400/dorries_drunk_tweet1-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500045981790885490" border="0" /></a><br />GOD BLESS the noughties for the ever expanding platform it has provided us for total humiliation. Gone are the days when you can only wax lyrical about the flaws of your ex-boyfriend whilst dolefully nursing a bottle of Vodka infront of a paused rerun of Friends while your best friend kindly pretends to listen while texting a waiter she has a crush on.<br /><br />NO. Why LIMIT the vastness of your alcohol-fuelled enlightenment to JUST plain old lifelong friend Lucy-from-London when you can BROADCAST these extremely moving, powerful, and lifechanging snippets of sage wisdom to the ENTIRE WORLD!<br /><br />Why, wouldn't Great Aunt Anne who logs on to facebook after her 11am crumpet just LOVE to know the sexual shortcomings of your ex-boyfriend? And wouldn't your father just be so completely overjoyed to be alerted that you have given up on men and are advertising yourself as a guinea pig for lesbianism (incase you've just spent your adult life accidently chasing the wrong sex?)<br /><br />I think that it is perfectly obvious that the noughties has taught us that YES, YES AND YES. Without a doubt, every little moment of Margherita Monday ("Going to Margherita Monday With the Girls!"..."At Margherita Monday With the Girls!"...."5 Margherita's Later and Still Going Strong With the Girls!..."Their izzznt anny tickeela in my MaRGRITA!"..."WHY R MEN SO SHIT?"..."BRIAN WHYYYY DONT YOU LOVVVEEE MEE") should, quite rightly, be recorded and published in a public forum.<br /><br />God Bless Twitter. And God Bless Twitter TWOFOLD for allowing us to humiliate ourselves infront of complete strangers, celebrities, and world leaders. And, even better, for those of us who might recoil the next day at our tequila infused cyber escapades and actually try and remedy the situation...nice try ALCY! Twitter so helpfully sticks the dagger in "Delete this post? There is no UNDO"<br /><br />Suck it up my depressed damsel-in-sick-mess. There is no undo. Hold your head high and embrace the fleeting moments of clarity you had the evening before. Maybe you were onto something in the first place*.<br /><br />So, for some guidance on Tequila Tweeting, I have compiled a list of inspirational tweets. If you are going to do it, you may aswell do it right:<br /><br />1. Try and remember the most embarassing and private thing your ex boyfriend told you and work it into a tweet. Casually. If he also has twitter- include him! Don't want him to miss out on the fun!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />EG: Watching a tv show about herpes! Looks nasty! Never realized how traumatic that must have been for you @StudlyStewart<br /><br /></span>2. Why not try being completely inappropriate with<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>a bloke you barely know, yet religiously stalk?<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Sexual advances via Twitter are SO irresistable!<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>And not even remotely stalkerish/ scary/ mental patient!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />EG: Planning my wedding with @hothenry! He hasn't proposed yet but the twinkle he had in his eye this morning when I saw him showering in his bathroom when I was casually straining my neck out of my parent's bedroom told me that a ring is IMMINENT!<br /><br /></span>3. Why not try and bitch about your work/work day/ boss/ desk buddy? They will totally take it as a joke. Sarcasm is best delivered via the internet.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">EG: At work with @dulldiane, sorry I mean @dynamitediane! Just had a great meeting- noone knows I'm still drunk!<br /></span><br />4. Find your exboyfriend's new girlfriend and offer her sage advice.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br /><br />EG: Your boyfriend is the sweetest @babycakes69! Thanks for loaning me him last night! He's still in good working condition and his herpes has cleared up! hurrah!<br /></span><span><br /><br /><br />*Probably not though. You alcoholic goon</span><span style="font-style: italic;">.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-39974911806633927202010-07-24T07:57:00.000-07:002010-07-24T08:20:12.173-07:00Subtle Butt to the Rescue!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbhtvcAzJ3Pz2w8rcWn0Wl-AFyZPTmplkOQxvi6aqWJe14O8rA2zzanusv2Q7PrK5EdTpXGkyKdDpmCVGWwqcle_dtwF-A-WA0YsaY03KjsdtzIBodscnbMrbjxtd3c8EOK8bO1La7-13/s1600/subtle-butt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbhtvcAzJ3Pz2w8rcWn0Wl-AFyZPTmplkOQxvi6aqWJe14O8rA2zzanusv2Q7PrK5EdTpXGkyKdDpmCVGWwqcle_dtwF-A-WA0YsaY03KjsdtzIBodscnbMrbjxtd3c8EOK8bO1La7-13/s400/subtle-butt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497492847671991010" border="0" /></a><br />We here at Life of Cringe (there are many of us) would like to express our sincerest gratitude to the ingenious makers of the amazingly-fun-to-say product "Subtle Butt"<br /><br />First of all, this combination of words is like a trip to Disney Land for my mouth. Try it. "Subtle Butt" Say it. Embrace it. Waltz with it. "Subtle Butt". Just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?<br /><br />Anyhoo, these ingenius little minxes have devised a product to ELIMINATE fart odor. Just pop it in your panties or drop it in your drawers and bam, Bob's your uncle.<br /><br />I believe that I have already expressed my opinion on the topic of girl farts, so I shall not digress into that heated subject again.<br /><br />However, as a generally quite pessimistic and skeptical English person, once the initial elation of the birth of such an ingenious, life-changing product had died down, I began to realize the flaws in the otherwise perfect shrine to anal hygiene.<br /><br />So, to the makers of Subtle Butt, I have a few rather pressing questions.<br /><br />1. Where do men who are more inclined to Boxers as their underwear of choice, attach Subtle Butt? Is there not a VERY REAL danger that, dangling free from the man's thighs, Subtle Butt might pop out and dispose itself very publicly. How would the said Boxer-wearing-gentleman explain this?<br /><br />2. If one is on a date, and one's date goes well, and one happens to find oneself lacking clothing, how might one explain the little padded gadget to one's date? Because, lets face it, if you are a Subtle Butt user, one can assume that you are either:<br /><br />a) Anally Retentive. Literally. And are so consumed by the horror of public farting that you spent Vodka money on it.<br /><br />b) Have really disgusting and smelly farts and should probably die alone anyway.<br /><br />3. If I buy several packs, can you cut me a deal? Like 3 for 2 or something? Help a sister out? This is like free publicity for you guys. I'm owed some Subtle Butt love.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-12059736272240989472010-06-04T07:00:00.000-07:002010-06-04T16:37:56.060-07:00CringeNationAs a native of the continent of Britain, I have a lot of pride. I love the Queen. I love Hugh Grant. I went to Hogwarts and count Harry Potter as one of my best mates. Britain is a great little slice of life.<br /><br />However, when I am on a treadmill (rareity) in my adopted country of Colorado, USA, and I come across this picture (to clarify this is a bride and a groom) in the great publication that is US Weekly:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj88OrhQoy0Xe_oXS6rWOCyyRTnNTUdxRknUhbckuOHWOnRA-TFsegWq5mQzTsM3OAZGna0Umsf2Vyx4lpK5LKPVAgF0Nc7naYEQngtgR1ewtVqemfeYUDbnPpFDFDCs603gM0-zdtIRXEH/s1600/shrek-wedding.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj88OrhQoy0Xe_oXS6rWOCyyRTnNTUdxRknUhbckuOHWOnRA-TFsegWq5mQzTsM3OAZGna0Umsf2Vyx4lpK5LKPVAgF0Nc7naYEQngtgR1ewtVqemfeYUDbnPpFDFDCs603gM0-zdtIRXEH/s400/shrek-wedding.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477867476390517170" border="0" /></a>.......it is unsettling that my first thought was: "5 dollars says they're British"<br /><br />And you know what? Hit the nail on the head. WELSH<br /><br />THANK YOU FOR LETTING US DOWN WALES. We were JUST recovering from Katie Price, Bad Teeth, and Cricket. We were EMERGING VICTORIOUSLY to be alongside the more respectable countries of Middle Earth and Disneyland, and WALES just had to go and fuck it up for all of us. NO WONDER WE DIDN'T WIN THE EUROVISION SONG CONTEST.<br /><br />Apparently, according to the Telegraph, the bride describes how: "The idea just came to me. . I knew that we would go as them because Keith looks just like Shrek. It was funny because when we said our vows Keith had these green ears sprouting from the top of his head."<br /><br />The idea just <span style="font-style: italic;">came</span> to you? Where you sipping tea with Mad Hatter and smoking opium with a Caterpillar? Was this before or after you slew Puff the Magic Dragon whilst riding a magical Unicorn to Never Never Land to rescue the Lost Boys?<br /><br />We will NEVER live this down. I am SO UNHAPPY. Here I was thinking that nothing could be more cringe than Heidi and Spencer and that the US was a far more cringe nation. But then all I had to do was flip the page and BAM. Britain overtakes the US!!<br /><br />US: 1, Britain: 0. Fairplay US Weekly, fairplay.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-76646335236302784472010-06-01T05:34:00.001-07:002010-06-01T10:53:34.613-07:00Cringe Applications: The Dangers of On-the-Go Technology<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1AWgFrvjDRRBfM1JFBThShB9vl7LPNQCaxqf2z7L4KNY5wjKvfZd5ED1qJYchsFQwyI2n1CX9cfjYX6YHE572DN2_3CEwFyMXLWsDUZFqzv366RX4T96H6DFWSeczscTOhp9j_tcoToNG/s1600/facebook-logo-300x300.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1AWgFrvjDRRBfM1JFBThShB9vl7LPNQCaxqf2z7L4KNY5wjKvfZd5ED1qJYchsFQwyI2n1CX9cfjYX6YHE572DN2_3CEwFyMXLWsDUZFqzv366RX4T96H6DFWSeczscTOhp9j_tcoToNG/s400/facebook-logo-300x300.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477789255157689122" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Alcohol + Technology is usually a pretty fatal combination. Like Heidi and Spencer, Bobbi and Whitney, or Beans and Rice. HOWEVER. Sometimes one does not <span style="font-style: italic;">even</span> need the Alcohol in the Alcohol + Technology equation to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">embarrass</span> oneself.<br /><br />Coming from a lady who could <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">embarrass</span> herself in the most humble, modest environments with not even as much as a swab of medical alcohol to boost her confidence, this probably isn't saying very much.<br /><br />However, I am convinced that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Facebook's</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Iphone</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ipad</span>/Tampax/Blackberry application was designed by an evil troll out on a mission to destroy the dignity of the world.<br /><br />Take the application's little space bar at the top of the screen. The little space next to the little face above the status updates. Sure, it may faintly say "What's on your mind?" and vaguely imply that it is an area to express one's ideas concerning their new status updates, however I really do not believe that it is anywhere near as clear as it should be.<br /><br />How many people, due to booze, being rushed, or absent-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">mindedly</span>, have actually meant to search someone (stalking via phone is particularly bad - stalking with a <span style="font-style: italic;">purpose</span>- nothing semi-casual about it) and then bloody well set that person's name as their status?<br /><br />Some people don't even realize they have done this, and spend the entire day merrily <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">fannying</span> about whilst their boyfriend's ex-girlfriend's name sparkles in lights on their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">facebook</span> page. Nice one, jackass.<br /><br />I have had the misfortune to do this twice. The first time I was very drunk, and set a girl I barely spoke to in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">high school's</span> name as my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">facebook</span> status whilst searching for her to ask if I could run away to Denver and live with her for a week during a fight I was having with my mother.<br /><br />I believe her name was my status for a solid evening before I woke up the next day, and promptly realized that I didn't have enough money to survive a week. Thus, I swiftly made amends with my mother, and quickly removed said random Denver ex-<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">high school</span> colleague girl's name as my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Facebook</span> status.<br /><br />The other time was somewhat more traumatizing, as I set a person I had just concluded dating as my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Facebook</span> status. This mistake I realized immediately, and ran around like Jack Bauer on 24 trying to find a <span style="font-style: italic;">bloody</span> computer that would turn on in <span style="font-style: italic;">less</span> than 20 minutes. I had to remove it from both my status and my history, so my phone just would not do. After scrambling around my friend's apartment for 25 minutes, deleting my status, status history, and hysterically checking if any of his friends were online to witness my downfall, I collapsed in a heap of anxiety-ridden stress. I don't know if this has ever happened to any of you out there, but let me tell you, there is nothing more tense in life than exposing yourself as a crazed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">facebook</span> stalker after a break up.<br /><br />One time, however, Karma smiled on me when a guy I was dating set my name as their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">facebook</span> status. This made me feel very smug and self-important and should happen more often. He was also an asshole so it made me feel extra smug and self-important when the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">knobhead</span> left it up for a full 18 hours before swiftly deleting it (obviously never brought it up to me, hoped I did not know). This should happen more often and makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside when it does.<br /><br />So basically, I'm beseeching all of you to exercise EXTREME caution when operating <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">facebook</span> applications on your phones. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">In fact</span>, just to be safe, I'd recommend that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">facebook</span> stalking be COMPLETELY limited to <span style="font-style: italic;">actual</span> person-laptop interactions and that <span style="font-style: italic;">no-one</span> attempt to stalk 'on-the-go' as this can be emotionally scarring if your fingers go awry. Tread carefully fellow <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">facebook</span> stalkers....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-9542227258130722972010-05-30T11:19:00.000-07:002010-05-30T12:15:10.159-07:00Cringe Girl Farts: An Open Letter to InfamousChris<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRUq4TF_EbJGaa2qk67Lcjb-5LuzUGVQVvVF5uWG-YF-mRbrw2WF8ng9xvVEjsaLw5lb7b6PvqXm3gcwDhW05k2kW-YBpCTm_cPYSCKzCtipRu9i5LejPE100B8ruSppy-ZEoZxuQKN1c5/s1600/girl+farts.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 423px; height: 74px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRUq4TF_EbJGaa2qk67Lcjb-5LuzUGVQVvVF5uWG-YF-mRbrw2WF8ng9xvVEjsaLw5lb7b6PvqXm3gcwDhW05k2kW-YBpCTm_cPYSCKzCtipRu9i5LejPE100B8ruSppy-ZEoZxuQKN1c5/s400/girl+farts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477143134640289714" border="0" /></a><br />Dear InfamousChris,<br /><br />I noticed your tweet "Girl farts make me cringe. They're usually silent but deadly..." and I would like to take a pause from my busy and important life (hungover, in pyjamas) to try and help you understand the dilemma of girl farts.<br /><br />Girl farting is often times rather traumatic. We have been trained from a young age to keep the volume at a minimal level. We are not supposed to fart. And if we do, it is expected that we emit puffs of Chanel No. 5 perfume that swirl and circulate through the air. I don't know about you, InfamousChris, but it is quite hard for my colon to recreate the odor of an infamous perfume, and sometimes my Chanel No.5 emissions are not quite as heavenly as I might wish them to be.<br /><br />Picture this: InfamousChris. You are on a running machine, in a public gym. You need to fart. But you can't. It just isn't possible because you are sandwiched between two very good looking men who are running at equally impressive speeds. You urge your gas to crawl back into your stomach and perhaps wait for a better time to exit your body. But gas is often a tricky and disobedient bastard. It won't listen to you. It's leaving your body and it doesn't care about the consequences.<br /><br />It slips out of your body, it is careful not to make a sound. But when it leaves, it emits a nuclear explosion of foul smelling particles. Everyone starts to sniff. Their faces become contorted. Even the sweaty woman on the spin bike on the other side of the gym has a look of disgust sweeping across her face. Everyone starts looking around for culprits. The smell lingers. You have only two options:<br /><br />A) Pretend you have no sense of smell and continue reading last month's horoscopes in US Weekly<br /><br />B) Mimic the faces of disgust surrounding you and pretend to look for imaginary guilty smelly fart person.<br /><br />You must continue to do this until the odor has passed. This process can sometimes take up to 5 minutes. You have absolutely no chance of flirtation with either man on next door running machine. They know it's you, and they are disgusted. They will probably talk about it in the locker room when they shower.<br /><br />So, InfamousChris. I hope that I have enlightened you on the many traumas that are faced by women in today's society. Sure, you might cringe. But every time you do, please look at the girl farter with compassion. It is only through acceptance that we will be able to lay the foundations of a more unified global community.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Ambassador of Girl Farters AnonymousUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-88576223294976849402010-05-28T05:56:00.001-07:002019-10-07T09:15:14.655-07:00Ageing Cringe = Fading Cringe<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkGsfiTZKq36peAe4emuUNiw1sNSu0n0Ql8hs4hM_Wmfe-MGM-IWTHDv2yY1S-Owv8CyVM2oaM72-LE1eCCgqgVK4qX31fWR1I-kDTp87Fvcyz9JK2SuIwh132E5t5Id-jwnj1IIzBxO_e/s1600/old_lady1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476304455817028210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkGsfiTZKq36peAe4emuUNiw1sNSu0n0Ql8hs4hM_Wmfe-MGM-IWTHDv2yY1S-Owv8CyVM2oaM72-LE1eCCgqgVK4qX31fWR1I-kDTp87Fvcyz9JK2SuIwh132E5t5Id-jwnj1IIzBxO_e/s400/old_lady1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 276px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Our society is faced with many problems (recent <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">BP</span> oil spill, the war in Iraq, and Heidi <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Montag</span> to name a few) but perhaps one which invades my trusted news sources (US Weekly, People, Grazia, Heat) the most is the morbid inevitability of AGEING. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Floppy</span> boobs, jiggly necks, sloppy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">cuslopuses</span>, no fun.<br />
<br />
However, after going to Sex and the City 2 last night, amid the entire population of Colorado housewives, I realized that ageing might not be too bad after all, and that despite all the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">propaganda</span> and sag, there is one golden victory in the world of ageing: LESS CRINGE.<br />
<br />
Why? Well for a start, most women over 50 just could not give a flying <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">fudgesicle</span>. They probably have a husband and kids, and have realized that after years of being stuck with Fatty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">McSourpuss</span> and his shrieking banshee children, that cringe is the least of their worries. As a result, they have found that they can often <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">egregiously</span> cross cringe boundaries otherwise closed off to the rest of us. In fact, they are often <span style="font-style: italic;">admired</span> for crossing this boundary and it makes them look fun, hip, and zany.<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Things that Women Over 50 Can Do That I Can't:<br /></span>1. Go to the Cinema in Pyjamas<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>(specifically a robe and slippers)<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Over 50's Housewives = </span>Girl's Night Out!! Woo!! Look at those cougars go!<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Me = </span>What the fuck are you doing? It's 9.45pm - did you seriously just wake up? Sort your life out. You will never get a job.<br />
<br />
2. Bring Bottles of Wine into the Cinema<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Over 50's Housewives</span> = Look at those wild little party animals go! Hope their husbands keep those little minxes on a tight leash. Wink, wink.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Me</span> = You are a pathetic alcoholic. Get your life sorted out. You will never get a job. Even <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Lindsay</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Lohan</span> wouldn't do that. Get out of my cinema and do not come back.<br />
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3. Sing Along to the Movie's Soundtrack While in the Cinema<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Over 50's Housewives</span> = Wow, she's still got it! She's so young at heart!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Me</span> = Shut up. You are hurting my boyfriend's eardrums. You should be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">embarrassed</span> that you know <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">every</span> word to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Chakah</span> Khan's "I'm Every Woman".<br />
<br />
4. Sing "All My Single Ladies" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Pantless</span> at a Gay Wedding<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Liza <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Minelli</span> = </span>Cheered, Adored, Applauded<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Me = </span>Mocked, Abhorred, Lauded. Probably blacklisted from all gay weddings and doomed to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">receive</span> "are you wearing pants this time?" text messages every time I leave my house for a year.<br />
<br />
.........Maybe ageing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">isn't</span> so bad. I look forward to skipping into my 50's drunk, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">pantless</span>, and singing.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivP42kG8Z-6NGSHAdhinKs6Yzp0dOlEdpnSaxpbyLprUqMxAONjEOs3LiArH8bBry4W-OIOWfKIjEwE3cXU9_k6i-ouJkyvfrW4E83xYA2COB1ui3jgVZHkv8G0HgmVd0zrSaBo2Bgq2OK/s1600/american-crazy-old-lady-04.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476304449292651842" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivP42kG8Z-6NGSHAdhinKs6Yzp0dOlEdpnSaxpbyLprUqMxAONjEOs3LiArH8bBry4W-OIOWfKIjEwE3cXU9_k6i-ouJkyvfrW4E83xYA2COB1ui3jgVZHkv8G0HgmVd0zrSaBo2Bgq2OK/s400/american-crazy-old-lady-04.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 329px;" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-66595420145340586272010-05-26T11:53:00.000-07:002010-05-26T12:53:17.801-07:00Cringe of the Week 5/26<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVMQWVawk-E4YMOhWXbRO_FVU-FZTbnjPu5QO1kz9ubtufqz2krUypN_qKUGLJtJhlFcbRH6S5M1LgRw7cx2q2ilWUMRe-jkgUeA3vZeOsp-bDnzy2A-miQqmBWApAQON2upENQ-MVq9W/s1600/Sarah+Ferguson+Presented+Check+Children+Crisis+amCgJ-Uo3Tll.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVMQWVawk-E4YMOhWXbRO_FVU-FZTbnjPu5QO1kz9ubtufqz2krUypN_qKUGLJtJhlFcbRH6S5M1LgRw7cx2q2ilWUMRe-jkgUeA3vZeOsp-bDnzy2A-miQqmBWApAQON2upENQ-MVq9W/s400/Sarah+Ferguson+Presented+Check+Children+Crisis+amCgJ-Uo3Tll.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475666846219717202" border="0" /></a><br />I thought it was pretty bad when I pocket dial randoms while driving and singing Spice Girls numbers, but being taped while acting like a <span style="font-style: italic;">Royal</span> (couldn't resist) douchebag is probably a little bit worse. Fergie Ferg!! How could you be so brainless? Info 4 dosh meetings are <span style="font-style: italic;">only</span> conducted in Klingon or Pig Latin in the basement of Dumbledore's potion lab. Schoolboy error, Duchess!!<br /><br />First of all. If you are in any way related to the FPR (football, politics, royalty) of England, you are fair game to be set up in extremely awkward situations that are filmed, distributed, and endlessly replayed on the BBC for weeks until Cheryl Cole gets a new hairdo, or Victoria Beckham smiles.<br /><br />Just look at Sven Goran Eriksson. Svenny! Treasure of all the land! Publicly shamed! Who would have thought that such a mild-mannered sex god would be assaulted by shameless faux-sheikhs???<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZ6EUX3IjRiNguFMBCw3xAhCu1YWo5K7BCifXFzF1ePj8LLOonAE3FXC-kD5Kf3XBS05QpvosIFL7cn6PQuIPrScQOZ1WXKi0uEngWdadQ8ZU7CehPASMMBrM0jvKlLtX72tK8-5UVYda/s1600/Sven_Goran_Eriksson_Mexico-thumb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZ6EUX3IjRiNguFMBCw3xAhCu1YWo5K7BCifXFzF1ePj8LLOonAE3FXC-kD5Kf3XBS05QpvosIFL7cn6PQuIPrScQOZ1WXKi0uEngWdadQ8ZU7CehPASMMBrM0jvKlLtX72tK8-5UVYda/s400/Sven_Goran_Eriksson_Mexico-thumb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475668703498655970" border="0" /></a><br />So Fergz, really, the fact that you have not been caught off-guard doing something embarassing (whiskey-fuelled flirtations with Prince Harry? Table Dancing at Ascot with Liz? Peeing in Albert's closet and blaming it on the dog?) is extremely surprising and you should have been counting your days of dignity as numbered.<br /><br />Although I do not have direct access to Fergz phone, I should imagine that her BBM correspondence with Queen Liz after the news broke looked exactly like this:<br /><br />Fergalicious - Yo Liz, dont wanna wake u but there's a bit of a sitch. Do U remember big fab party I went to last week? Well, Willz gave me far 2 many G 'N T's and got bit bladdered. Thought I woz in with this man so took him into priv. room. The Bend N Snap routine wozn't working so I offered him royal info 4 dosh.<br /><br />QueenLiz4Life - Bollocks. Told u 2 stick 2 bacardi breezers. You r a shit drunk.<br /><br />If I were Fergz right now, this is what I would do:<br /><br />1) Ask PA to offer crap apology to press<br />2) Hide in bed, eat ice cream.<br />3) Say to myself 'at least I'm not lindsay lohan'<br />4) Grab a toothpick and try to dig tunnels connecting my house to Harrods.<br />5) Live in Food Hall until the World Cup starts.<br /><br />Here is the Video: Please note Red Wine next to Duchess Fergz (essential to all cringe-related incidences)<br /><br /><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kB1gN2VEAL0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kB1gN2VEAL0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="480"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-16380751368976733882010-05-24T05:59:00.000-07:002010-05-24T08:30:14.172-07:00The Two Waves of Cringe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnpSqCLbBYpdsXh_St9wSU3y7In5LtxjuUsBEKuQF98HyBlxTfblItMJZXPHzEqWnBL-ZBVGUYoCHby_c__66SqAqAuHXiHwOaS28Up7A2m6fCSD__3mwqfw_dCqREq23iBpcAP71k-mEy/s1600/kim-waving.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnpSqCLbBYpdsXh_St9wSU3y7In5LtxjuUsBEKuQF98HyBlxTfblItMJZXPHzEqWnBL-ZBVGUYoCHby_c__66SqAqAuHXiHwOaS28Up7A2m6fCSD__3mwqfw_dCqREq23iBpcAP71k-mEy/s400/kim-waving.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474842501254914370" border="0" /></a><br />Who, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pray tell</span>, is the knob-end who invented waving? I get that it has some practical purposes (children lost at disney world trying to attract frantic parents attention, dramatic goodbyes at airports when your loved one is slowly walking away, emotional departures when your kid is going to college for the first time and waves goodbye from an overstuffed Subaru)<br /><br />BUT as far as I'm concerned, since I don't have children and am emotionally stunted, waving is just another social convention created for cringe. Since waving is generally a two-person game, there are therefore two main ways in which this seemingly harmless activity can make even the most saintly maiden blush:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. The Over Enthusiastic Wave That Was Not Intended For You......</span><br /><br />But you wave back anyway.<br /><br />This is the wave you get when you are at lunch, or perhaps at a crowded venue, and you see someone way off yonder, approaching aggressively. You vaguely know this person, and they are on the cusp of people you can be arsed to say hi to/ people you avoid by quickly averting your glance to your phone. You're debating if you should say hi (if you have already seen them) or you are simply sipping your espresso and minding your own business, when said vaguely recognizable person (friend of a friend? person met while drunk on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Saturday</span>? person met while drunk on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Sunday</span>?) starts waving like an excitable buffoon. They are <span style="font-style: italic;">SO</span> excited to see you.<br /><br />Now you have noticed them, the countdown has begun. You are probably feeling a little bit smug and superior because you must have had such a big impact on this person that they clearly have such a burning desire to make contact with you again. Perhaps they have been waiting all week to bump into you, and they are just GUSHING with a week's worth of excitement at the mere PROSPECT of being near your divine, witty, intelligent, unparalleled charisma . Normally, you may have simply ignored the person, but that just seems too cruel. They are still waving with the same vigour. You really cannot ignore it anymore. Obviously, because you are so chic and controlled, you opt not to go for the same wind screen wiper hand motion that Batty Hand Waver McGee has gone for, so instead you opt for a more restrained, yet respectably enthusiastic hand wave.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixm1E9SR-og-TQ00_pdyEcb-eztkLpjtvD1P-SYXILz1xCH-85D-sKmThC7O5OAgfZWXVaytdYZWN4H-81ID-eHOCEXe1t-sBpgYzliJvaZiTQjRIY9VdD6bRIT_86keij8ST8uYi5LzRr/s1600/30080_1355683165951_1047600259_30953231_7081521_s.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 232px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixm1E9SR-og-TQ00_pdyEcb-eztkLpjtvD1P-SYXILz1xCH-85D-sKmThC7O5OAgfZWXVaytdYZWN4H-81ID-eHOCEXe1t-sBpgYzliJvaZiTQjRIY9VdD6bRIT_86keij8ST8uYi5LzRr/s400/30080_1355683165951_1047600259_30953231_7081521_s.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474842496714661058" border="0" /></a><br />The other person does not seem to notice at first, so you continue. Maybe your hand motions get a little bit more aggressive and insistent. When said batty hand-waver finally does notice, it is only to give you a look of bafflement followed by a brief look of recognition followed by a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">sidewards</span> comment to their friend.<br /><br />No, asshole, they were not waving at you. They were waving at their spouse/best friend/relative/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">bffffff</span> sitting behind you. You are none of these. Obviously that wave was not intended for you. Get back to your salad and stop bloody waving. Fool.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. The 'I'm Pretty Sure That's Them, And They'll Get </span><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Pissy</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> If I Don't Wave' Wave</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_avekBI74quiz2T8OGZQuCLKOnzbvELxz2XWi8kRtyUUebFe7VsIC4-U84ZjJf-TBDVoKKRN4LMPJInHqdoRjwX9M5Vz9IgXNrPo7srKaLC2lmGEPt5gJsvc675I-7TLJ5qr0XCfLFsL/s1600/picture-446-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_avekBI74quiz2T8OGZQuCLKOnzbvELxz2XWi8kRtyUUebFe7VsIC4-U84ZjJf-TBDVoKKRN4LMPJInHqdoRjwX9M5Vz9IgXNrPo7srKaLC2lmGEPt5gJsvc675I-7TLJ5qr0XCfLFsL/s400/picture-446-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474840761642427762" border="0" /></a>But no, it's not them.<br /><br /> It isn't your mother (since when has your mother been 73 and worn fanny packs?). It isn't your best friend (pretty sure she doesn't have acne or a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">nosehead</span>). It isn't your sister ( she lives 5000 miles away, is only 12, and definitely should not be in New York at a nightclub at 2am).<br /><br />But for a split second you are <span style="font-style: italic;">sure</span> that it is your relative/friend/boyfriend/family friend and you <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> that absence of a wave would induce some kind of mildly narky comment via <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">text/facebook</span> chat/ your mother, so you decide to go for some form of hand movement to signal your awareness of their presence, and perhaps also indicate your elation of having so serendipitously bumped into them.<br /><br />They turn around. Of course it's not them. You were a complete twat for thinking it was them in the first place. Time to start a) pretending you're waving at the person behind them, and continue the waving shenanigan b) stretching c) pretending you're trying to get cell phone service d) drop your hand <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">immediately</span> to your side and saunter off into the shadows.<br /><br />I propose that, in order to avoid these awkward scenarios, we all adopt the Barack Obama point-and-smile with the John Travolta disco strut. Everyone gets love. Win-win situation.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoOPl88a37iTn3B-obqL2tuV1jRMaLwBs1_ozxMa_lPpMK1FolS0up5Mce0bm_Fmiu1pbBJMs8s2DhEIS1oaosRTn6ZVQpM2P6VfdPWu7iC0ksaaPoecak4ATDsClNTX8UpPcIPLCntJsR/s1600/barack_obama+dem+convention.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoOPl88a37iTn3B-obqL2tuV1jRMaLwBs1_ozxMa_lPpMK1FolS0up5Mce0bm_Fmiu1pbBJMs8s2DhEIS1oaosRTn6ZVQpM2P6VfdPWu7iC0ksaaPoecak4ATDsClNTX8UpPcIPLCntJsR/s400/barack_obama+dem+convention.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474835878184548146" border="0" /></a><br />+<br /><br /><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/okpCx87orOA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/okpCx87orOA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="480"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-88924952584742296912010-05-21T10:02:00.000-07:002010-05-21T15:01:57.234-07:00Lindsay Lohan: High Priestess of Cringe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4cLHSmzZc0kHhrkMpk08D722yBaLZLBJ-4VZ9gqwDSIGBvd0FVjCnQlN9NSW-7OQ_p_kGwaTE-sdrakDQlMfpApSACXwpm9y-0Z-AK2vyzT6mv1AM7rWYKG0othVta-tRg3uD6i9A7jr/s1600/lindsay-lohan-passed-out.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 329px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4cLHSmzZc0kHhrkMpk08D722yBaLZLBJ-4VZ9gqwDSIGBvd0FVjCnQlN9NSW-7OQ_p_kGwaTE-sdrakDQlMfpApSACXwpm9y-0Z-AK2vyzT6mv1AM7rWYKG0othVta-tRg3uD6i9A7jr/s400/lindsay-lohan-passed-out.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473818650996481906" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I am a strong believer in the idea that <span style="font-style: italic;">everything</span> put on this large mass of compost we call Earth, does indeed have a <span style="font-style: italic;">purpose</span>. Tonsils for example, I think are quite clearly God's way of telling us that we have been working far too hard and deserve to spend a week in bed with a tub of ice cream. Michael Jackson's family, as well, whilst seemingly useless, are a reminder to us all that no matter how totally insane Aunt Maggy may act after a bottle of sherry, she is in no way in the same stratosphere of crazy as the lunatic Jacko clan.<br /><br />In this train of thought, I recently realized an astonishing thing. By this logic which I have so masterfully been harbouring for years, it must surely also be that Lindsay Lohan has some kind of purpose. But what on <span style="font-style: italic;">earth</span> could that be? It might seem tough at first folks, but I think it is quite evident: Lindsay is the indicator of rock-bottom cringe. It doesn't matter whether you just woke up next to a stranger, just inadvertantly flashed the world as you changed with you curtains open, or just pocket dialled your crush while gushing about them. You will <span style="font-style: italic;">never</span> be as cringe as Lindsay Lohan. Ever.<br /><br />Why? Because Lindsay's sort of cringe is a kind that is carefully harboured over years of public embarassment. Her cringe knows no limits. She is <span style="font-style: italic;">immune</span> to cringe. She does not even <span style="font-style: italic;">acknowledge</span> cringe. Cringe is as part of her being as the vodka that runs through her veins, the crabs that thrive in her crotch, and the dead animals that cling to her head. Whatever cringe incident you have just endured, Lindsay has probably done five times this week infront of a much larger audience in between outbursts of queefing and drunken recitals of <span style="font-style: italic;">Mean Girls</span> quotations.<br /><br />In case you needed a reminder, here is a collection of visuals to confirm my thoughts. There are definitely worst shots out there, but I'm sunbathing right now and am beginning to feel drunk after spending five minutes looking at Lindsay Lohan images on Google. Advice: If you want to get wankered for cheap, just create a slideshow of Lindsay images and play them on the TV whilst listening to "La Cucaracha". The room will start spinning in no time.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1b8uCrELiBZGCiay8PmWW0h633NcYE_vs_zeKyl4RBMi2FSyFqhRa12t9ilZ-2lCG54zkHf6_p4lnT-U5K44eNHSmwo7_MhhH0XoAUD9daYeAUwLJ4XvBwuvprXrzeMHbpOStz0FSy38/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 129px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1b8uCrELiBZGCiay8PmWW0h633NcYE_vs_zeKyl4RBMi2FSyFqhRa12t9ilZ-2lCG54zkHf6_p4lnT-U5K44eNHSmwo7_MhhH0XoAUD9daYeAUwLJ4XvBwuvprXrzeMHbpOStz0FSy38/s400/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473820458556076642" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjTvmbywjj3ghgTqCSIgHHLkT71_y70jHMbuAFU_rg6YhndAyHgqms2CjLOJGSF6uEOoU0wtvK01nB169nXyIPdjUWNW15QA0ooiJ4GMcHhLy6S4Ulz51Rqtt-jShCl2Xon73Y5pkwNMIN/s1600/lindsay-lohan-collagen-lips.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjTvmbywjj3ghgTqCSIgHHLkT71_y70jHMbuAFU_rg6YhndAyHgqms2CjLOJGSF6uEOoU0wtvK01nB169nXyIPdjUWNW15QA0ooiJ4GMcHhLy6S4Ulz51Rqtt-jShCl2Xon73Y5pkwNMIN/s400/lindsay-lohan-collagen-lips.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473820932805854834" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLw3FHuSuodF5uflnuNaHaCQKXMtQqnh0J6Qfxdh1Ros-63VkfT1yP7NVKMm_0UhP8ne9HgPCjb6mgXV1EvVZZE_2kuYEf0XJYG56FczcCi9CGotDfDd4_HOjzWXugwJIjpyZdXuR1uXG/s1600/images-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 117px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLw3FHuSuodF5uflnuNaHaCQKXMtQqnh0J6Qfxdh1Ros-63VkfT1yP7NVKMm_0UhP8ne9HgPCjb6mgXV1EvVZZE_2kuYEf0XJYG56FczcCi9CGotDfDd4_HOjzWXugwJIjpyZdXuR1uXG/s400/images-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473820453577010514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyi7MfNZwuCQgT85V4ebXcCkyoG4lVoET_eM3oGKjSmvlrA_gBw4gcALb77elidNAo8rQIMwCRhJ5UUwCjcS5yykPp8JLu2rWKz0IwwDbQxKjrl6Dbe83h5UjfRJFjIAKU9CfsDgCbZ1x3/s1600/lindsay-lohan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyi7MfNZwuCQgT85V4ebXcCkyoG4lVoET_eM3oGKjSmvlrA_gBw4gcALb77elidNAo8rQIMwCRhJ5UUwCjcS5yykPp8JLu2rWKz0IwwDbQxKjrl6Dbe83h5UjfRJFjIAKU9CfsDgCbZ1x3/s400/lindsay-lohan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473819744932267154" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0D3tkRNjnYwPwMrmBy6cFE1LC08kqW-JKmbyGrcjYZczILRSW_T9wNE2S2YB1IWPhMvcE5VZ7hucNWNgno9zJKgnTxEmuSz8GkZEJaKlYTT4vpJ0voIroZDhSUkYCAy7XOC4Q7w2WS044/s1600/lindsay-lohan-usa-bragas.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0D3tkRNjnYwPwMrmBy6cFE1LC08kqW-JKmbyGrcjYZczILRSW_T9wNE2S2YB1IWPhMvcE5VZ7hucNWNgno9zJKgnTxEmuSz8GkZEJaKlYTT4vpJ0voIroZDhSUkYCAy7XOC4Q7w2WS044/s400/lindsay-lohan-usa-bragas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473818456634040370" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-22754480629286038322010-05-17T09:13:00.000-07:002010-05-17T15:27:51.494-07:00Vintage Cringe: School Dances<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kf_mvNsNPXNUPiFDHH_MLOowvj16gs1kITs4TTv-x0xD7ITLUB5ocB_GBVFItGUVTWGvZ3faa9b9ZlgJ1CCJFdiXk3KqBcOIeJryJOB3f5hEkDrDeoUPXiCd2xmmgVq-GwYrOI4nrv7M/s1600/prom_dress-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kf_mvNsNPXNUPiFDHH_MLOowvj16gs1kITs4TTv-x0xD7ITLUB5ocB_GBVFItGUVTWGvZ3faa9b9ZlgJ1CCJFdiXk3KqBcOIeJryJOB3f5hEkDrDeoUPXiCd2xmmgVq-GwYrOI4nrv7M/s400/prom_dress-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472285755526804866" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I challenge anyone within the 50 US states above the age of 20 to tell me in good faith with a christian twinkle in their eye that all proms, winter formals, and homecoming dances were not the most cringe events in their delicate teenage existences. Because they're wrong. Or lying. Or now work at JC Penney and start every sentence "hey girl hey"<br /><br />Coming back to my mother's house, I was reminded of this fact in quite spectacular fashion when I opened up a lesser-used closet to find what can only be described as the most horrific beast of barbie-pink tulle loafed on the floor. For a second I wondered whether Elton John had stopped by and pooped in my closet, but after I worked through my repressed high school memories, I was disgraced to realize that the decaying flamingo explosion was actually my Junior Homecoming dress. Great, thanks for that one Betsey Johnson.<br /><br />Recalling the horrific memories that I will probably need counseling for at some point, I realized that this <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">sacrilegious</span> mess of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">psychotic</span> pink rage was by no means the worst part of these evil school-orchestrated 'dances', and in fact the whole evening was created at the sadistic humor of faculty members at the cost of their students dignity. From beginning to end, the whole night is like a continuous chain of cringe:<br /><br />1. The Date<br /><br />First of all, if you were awkward, slightly overweight, and rejected tweezers like I did, finding a date was by no means a small feat. It is so easy for parents to judge and giggle over their evening sherry when some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">acned</span> fool drops by in a 1989 Ford wearing a tuxedo last worn by their father in 1977. Waiting awkwardly in the living room, making strange conversation with your mum as he tries to pretend that his glove compartment is not stocked full of condoms and that he made a bet that he would at least see your daughter's nipple by the end of the evening. Sorry mum, but that was the only one desperate enough to take me out, and the only one who had a car so I wouldn't have to drive myself (I had <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span> dignity, you know).<br /><br />2. The Dress<br /><br />My mistake is upstairs in my closet, so if anyone wants to pop around and have a good laugh, the door's always open. If you need anything to fuel your campfire, I'm pretty sure it's as combustible as they get. Equally, if you are planning a terrorist attack, whilst it might be slightly more <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">embarrassing</span> to explain coming through security, I guarantee you it will be easier to get on the plane than a bomb and equally as effective due to the many layers of synthetic fabric of which it is comprised. You could also use it to smuggle <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Mexicans</span> through the border since it flairs out about six feet. Someone. Please. Take. It.<br /><br />3. Getting Ready<br /><br />For guys, I'm guessing this involved jerking off to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">youporn</span> in order to practice their skills and hone their technique for the evening. For girls, the whole process is comparable to preparing troops for a major assault on enemy combatants. The hair, the nails, the makeup. So much time is devoted for such little results. In fact, I'd argue that the whole process actually negates the whole 'beautifying' idea as one ends up with about five layers of foundation on one's face and about five cans of hairspray in one's hair which leaves one looking more like a drag queen than a prom queen and will actually melt on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">dancefloor</span> once one <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">gets</span> one's groove on and starts to sweat profusely. Some element of alcohol is also probably involved, although to go to one of those things again I'm pretty sure I'd get <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">wankered</span> beforehand so props to 16 year old me for at least having some sense of propriety.<br /><br />4. The Dance<br /><br />I don't even know where to begin with this one. Poor <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">chaperones</span>. If anyone should have sued me throughout my life, it is the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">chaperones</span> of these dances for the mental damage my high school inflicted on them. Standing for three hours straight having to watch a throbbing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">embreyo</span> of sex-deprived buffoons as they misguidedly revealed their mating calls must have been like whipping yourself continuously with barbed wire. Screw '<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">waterboarding</span>', if the US had been more hardcore, they would have made the Guantanamo prisoners <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">chaperone</span> high school dances one after the other.<br /><br />5. The After Party<br /><br />Whilst I was not cool enough to attend after parties for all of the dances I so self-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">hatingly</span> attended, the one for my Senior Prom involved beer in red cups and involved me suggesting that everyone walked around topless for the remainder of the evening. Which they did. There are pictures.<br /><br />For the sake of all students out there, I suggest that we end this abhorrent practice and replace it with something far less cringe. Homecoming Karaoke anyone?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-24792406828365594612010-05-11T05:18:00.000-07:002010-05-11T05:51:30.721-07:00Bathroom Cringe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI4yuDZKkBpH4vssB9TfNt-RImylKAusIc88cVqRn35hjsmtB16MH5aq26A4b98HMnP1sqp41rCtMoR-EzOmLqy8XhlX0xAKyZnDq5JeV92iAbNQxvromY7-Ogi7D9ONJvIRcXaNKFtgNQ/s1600/images.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 98px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI4yuDZKkBpH4vssB9TfNt-RImylKAusIc88cVqRn35hjsmtB16MH5aq26A4b98HMnP1sqp41rCtMoR-EzOmLqy8XhlX0xAKyZnDq5JeV92iAbNQxvromY7-Ogi7D9ONJvIRcXaNKFtgNQ/s400/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469994270928369362" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Public bathrooms. One of life's little mysteries. Everyone skips in and out, footloose and fancy free. Everyone looks so normal and chipper, grooving through their day and briefly stopping to relieve their bladders in a communal stall before prancing back to their happy little lives.<div><br /></div><div>Do not be fooled. If my library's bathrooms could talk, I'm pretty sure they'd reveal the ugly truth about these dirty non-flushing sharters. </div><div><br /></div><div>Why, fellow toilet users, is it that almost 50% of most bathrooms contain unnessecary deposits of human origin which float creepily like a poisoned dead sea creature? Is it that 80% of all public toilets genuinely don't work and will clog at the mere sight of toilet paper? Or, more likely, is it that these evil little loo abusers, are simply indulging their wanton toilet behavior in a more low key environment. </div><div><br /></div><div>What is scary is that, the chances are, one of us <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">knows</span> these bathroom bastards. We may even have shared LUNCH with them, discussed politics, or, god forbid, had DRINKS with them. They could be one of your friends, family members, or love interests. They mix amongst us, revelling in their dirty bathroom ways, laughing at us inside. 'It was ME' they all giggle viciously to themselves '<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I </span>am the reason you could not wee in stall #9 this morning'. As you still shove the memory of the strange cluster of unidentified objects lurking in the seven toilet stalls you attempted to use, they <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">smurk</span> cruelly at the toilets they have defaced.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure they each even have their own trademark. But, luckily for them, no-one would ever be so blatantly self-hating as to <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> carry out a full investigation into these vandalizing non-flushers. </div><div><br /></div><div>They <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">relish</span> in the thought that what would be considered cringe in private domains, becomes a more acceptable <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">en masse</span> assault as they namelessly slink from bathroom to bathroom rendering toilets the world over unusable.</div><div><br /></div><div>Laugh on, toilet bastards. One day I have faith that a bathroom cleaner will out the lot of you. Your days are numbered.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-43190663151144294612010-05-10T07:26:00.000-07:002010-05-24T14:21:29.078-07:00The Cringe List: People I Should Not Text While Drunk<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YUHFPK4evAh0-jARBccmKNQY2jfNkDo842gJhFcXibDF89iORqArgOGCTrM93SAv-l-8Mdd_Iq8ZDlNFEBcHXHiMEtp_DpVArasozrYshdHSX2JQb13BxHvp3tH95rLF3aM7vgsDsROl/s1600/images.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YUHFPK4evAh0-jARBccmKNQY2jfNkDo842gJhFcXibDF89iORqArgOGCTrM93SAv-l-8Mdd_Iq8ZDlNFEBcHXHiMEtp_DpVArasozrYshdHSX2JQb13BxHvp3tH95rLF3aM7vgsDsROl/s400/images.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469654173328813234" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /></div>If BlackBerry could ever be so kind as to devise an application prohibiting inappropriate drunk texting/emailing/facebooking, I do believe that my dignity would sky rocket. However, since I am inclined to assume that the elimination of alcohol-induced texting is not on their to-do list, I have compiled a list of people I should not text as an attempt at self-regulation (which I will definitely pay no notice to)<div><br /></div><div>1. My Father</div><div><br /></div><div>Being five hours ahead of me in London, it is understandable that he does not appreciate receiving messages on his morning commute randomly detailing my grandiose life plans, asking him precisely what room he plans to put his impending child ('you shouldn't take mine, it's on the top floor, that baby would just <i>roll</i> right down those stairs like a BOWLING BALL') or detailing the ins and outs of my day ('I helped my boss do some stuff and then I had a PANINI! How GREAT are PANINIS?!')</div><div><br /></div><div>2. My Ex-Boyfriend</div><div><br /></div><div>While I am inclined to be less controlled around the Useless Worm of Lies, and often find it amusing to wind him up at any and all points of the day, for Karma's sake it is probably best that I strive to avoid text messages designed solely to piss him off (inquiring into the health of his anorexic girlfriend, mocking his lack of employment or asking him to verify his increasingly dubious sexual orientation)</div><div><br /></div><div>3. My Professors</div><div><br /></div><div>It is not normal to ask unnecessary questions regarding the class curriculum after 1am. It will not help my grade.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. My Boss</div><div><br /></div><div>It is not kosher to preemptively assume that I will be too hungover to work the next day and imply the possibility of a bout of 12.30am food poisoning as to my reason for probably not being at work the next day. It does not aid my future employment prospects</div><div><br /></div><div>5. Romantic Interests</div><div><br /></div><div>Misspelt messages containing bold, aggressive, flirtatious material are not sexy.</div><div><br /></div><div>.......so basically that just leaves my friends. who are probably at a nightclub behaving inappropriately or texting one of the above people.</div><div><br /></div><div>My dignity is doomed.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-48861976150696383512010-05-09T12:47:00.000-07:002010-05-09T13:24:12.833-07:00The Four Falls of Cringe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FbccA01pKLA8gd3uuV_9RULBW9-S7GZ5nVUpylO9SlAmpanv3xhP6-1DStCLiR3xSIbv7rUiMn3r678Quoh9NL0AguByTbTw7L96l4-Ge5CjmXgPQjNr5yhX0YcM2s7mPdZ81fdGijPD/s1600/herve+leger+model+falls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FbccA01pKLA8gd3uuV_9RULBW9-S7GZ5nVUpylO9SlAmpanv3xhP6-1DStCLiR3xSIbv7rUiMn3r678Quoh9NL0AguByTbTw7L96l4-Ge5CjmXgPQjNr5yhX0YcM2s7mPdZ81fdGijPD/s400/herve+leger+model+falls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469367935030230914" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Falling in public is a tale of differing degrees, and no one fall can be described without first considering the many circumstances which can serve to either alleviate or aggravate the fall in question. With all this in mind, I would like to present to you: The Four Falls of Cringe.<br /><br />1. Falls with Friends<br /><br />By far the best of all falls. You have company and you're strolling - strutting, in fact, when all of a sudden some awkward pavement gap sends you flying. Your friends gasp, and immediately offer to help. You jump up, and you all laugh at the sheer hilarity of the fall. You recap the events loudly, and all passers-by are merely enamoured by the endearing show of comedy achieved by the group of carefree girls embracing their flaws and demonstrating their unity. It's fine, you can shrug it off, you are so bloody fantastic walking with your equally fantastic companions that if anything, the fall should in fact <span style="font-style: italic;">enhance</span> your shagging powers. You fly high girlfriend, you are above the fall.<br /><br />2. The 'I'm not drunk' Drunk Fall<br /><br />So it's 2am. And yeah, you lost count of the number of alcoholic drinks consumed and aren't even considering the bottles of wine drunk with dinner (that happened yesterday - doesn't count). You feel great. You are reveling in new found confidence and are rapidly making new friends. You are a goddess. Sure, you have mispronounced a few words and merged a few sentences together. But really, who needs consonants?<br /><br />To be quite honest, it's getting rather irritating that so many kill joys have felt the need to question your sobriety. Move on, kind sir, you tell them. You are indeed sober (enough) and they clearly have some puritanical complex you'd rather not involve yourself with. You are a flaneur, strolling easily through the party, loudly proclaiming the lack of alcohol you taste in your mixed drink. When, all of a sudden, <span style="font-style: italic;">tout a coup</span>, some sneaky little object entangles itself with your Alexander Wang heel (spring 2010 - the amazing grey leather studded boots, natch)<br /><br />Yard sale. Your shit is everywhere. You find yourself on the floor, straddling extremely pointy objects, with everyone around you staring. Conversation has stopped. The air is tense. Some random asshole pipes up "I think someone should take her home". Anger takes hold. With a dash of shame.<br /><br />You slowly rise like a creature from the deep. Groping objects to aid you in your journey to the upright position. "I'm not drunk guys" you say casually, "it's these <span style="font-style: italic;">shoes</span> look at them, they are just <span style="font-style: italic;">so intense</span>" You die inside. You can't really look around for fear that any ex, potential fling, or frenemy may have just witnessed your dramatic fall from grace. Time to go. Don't even bother saying goodbye to anyone. They'll understand.<br /><br />3. The Random Solo Street Fall<br /><br />You are actually sober. Probably. You aren't wearing heels. It's not that late, or that early. You are walking from A to B. Maybe walking in time with your Ipod music. You aren't with anyone, you are dreaming of dinner, thinking about what that asshole Geneiveve said in class today (you are quite frankly appalled by her lack of social etiquette), musing on some recent cat videos you saw on youtube- life is good. You cross the street, the pedestrian light is red but whatever, that car should stop for you anyway- you're in the groove of your ipod stroll, when suddenly, you miscalculate the height of the curb and fall like a plank.<br /><br />The pavement is hard. The fall was fucking painful. Your Ipod is still running. You are aware that several concerned people have gathered around you but you aren't responding because Arcade Fire is still loudly blaring in your eardrums.You quickly spring up. Smile vaguely at everyone around and march rapidly to whatever corner will hide you first. You die of shame. You can't laugh out loud. You'll just look crazy. Damage control is necessary. Walk on. Don't look around. Didn't happen. Don't stop walking until you get home and above all else, KEEP YOUR FEET PICKED UP WHEN YOU WALK AN DO NOT RE-OFFEND.<br /><br />4. Models Falling on the Runway<br /><br />These falls are just funny for everyone. Proof that karma exists, and even the skinny, stupid, and beautiful can be brought back down to earth and thwarted with a good helping of cringe.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-38709144742240078582010-05-09T08:29:00.001-07:002010-05-09T12:17:44.431-07:00Cringe of the Week<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu3m0JpNZMHrPlsKOAg8prtgJjJg6BVmGFQvzfFr9P1c9uS5HmYXtvRLjj-Zan5yyQD-5q8pyY3dHAKgyEkHP22hxwQWnQoUFFF5DPghz53q2MuoZaHz9_zKvPdIkbUw2DjEU1tYd97mpB/s1600/walk-into-glass-optical-illusion-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu3m0JpNZMHrPlsKOAg8prtgJjJg6BVmGFQvzfFr9P1c9uS5HmYXtvRLjj-Zan5yyQD-5q8pyY3dHAKgyEkHP22hxwQWnQoUFFF5DPghz53q2MuoZaHz9_zKvPdIkbUw2DjEU1tYd97mpB/s400/walk-into-glass-optical-illusion-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469299033899173682" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It's finals week and admittedly, life is a little bit strained. Caffeine is pulsing through your veins, you may or may not have taken one adderall too many, and the blurry line between reality, sleep, and a fictional pixie world of hallucinations is becoming increasingly less easy to distinguish. Your eyes hurt from the glare of the computer screen you have been infront of for the past ten hours, and you aren't sure what time it is because you have been sitting in the sub-basement of the library for so long that you would survive any Bio or Nuclear weapons that have very possibly been wreaking havoc on New York City. I get this.<br /><br />However, this does not negate the fact that it is absolutely hilarious when one final's victim walked full throttle into a glass wall in the library this week. On lookers stared in amazement as the girl walked forcefully into the glass wall, where she left an imprint of her forehead and nose. Frazzled, and violently shaken by the impact, the girl nervously glanced around to mentally gauge the spectrum of damage she may have just inflicted on her flailing ego.<br /><br />By this point, many kind students had dutifully turned away. A sense of common hilarity was running high in the library commons, but as etiquette states, one must at least wait for the victim to exit via the space a good five feet to the right of her originally failed endeavour, before any kind of audible laugh may escape from the onlookers.<br /><br />My roomate and I however, are not of the polite variety, and the scenario was just way too funny to formulate any kind of false composure. To make matters worse, we also rushed to the scene of the offense and remarked loudly in between outbursts of laughter "She wasn't even anywhere near the door" and "Look! Her nose print!"<br /><br />The moral of this story is: tread carefully, and only walk through doors that have been clearly established as exit portals by people in front of you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2715891832400779401.post-74639716465326367272010-05-08T17:53:00.000-07:002010-05-08T18:33:40.187-07:00Cringe Face<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GoegX-9Aff0COnTU3B2-TyPaPMoa3A8wHGmNswszFNF2fEemCvzo_4oeHfxwH3kvVtN6Xc_Ewqb8OvR723FUfDwK43BvYmRmlS2mUcCfMAJl3b-3ECdX_H3r5HVHE5qdjnLl-XTnQVfG/s1600/0823071621.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GoegX-9Aff0COnTU3B2-TyPaPMoa3A8wHGmNswszFNF2fEemCvzo_4oeHfxwH3kvVtN6Xc_Ewqb8OvR723FUfDwK43BvYmRmlS2mUcCfMAJl3b-3ECdX_H3r5HVHE5qdjnLl-XTnQVfG/s400/0823071621.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469077390256265970" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So. You have a friend. He's male. And that's ok because contrary to When Harry Met Sally, in your world of profound maturity, it is possible for males and females to be friends.<br /><br />Anyway, he's kind of short, and I think we can all see from the Nicole Kidman/Tom Cruise situation that that is just asking for disaster.<br /><br />You know that he likes you, because you are fabulous, chic, and so fantastically witty most of the time. That and the fact that he's tried it on multiple times.<br /><br />But no, you guys can be friends. It's ok that he's in love with you because, let's face it, most people are and the ones that aren't are gay. You keep this charade up for a while, months probably.<br /><br />But then...one merlot too deep, probably in your robe and watching some remotely sentimental chick flick (probably with hugh grant in it), you realize. Like a lightning bolt or the announcement of a Louboutin sample sale, you are stopped in your tracks, paralyzed. You like him. I mean you wouldn't try and pull some Mrs Robinson seduction act on him, but you wouldn't entirely regret a drunk snog as long as he kept his hands in his pockets (you're a <span style="font-style: italic;">lady</span> thank you very much)<br /><br />But then. The question arises. You begin to fantasize/imagine/analyse the potential encounter that would lead to this drunkenly spontaneous yet entirely planned circumstance, and you imagine the build up (fine, bit blurry, maybe involving a tequila shot) and the kiss (probably pretty ok) but then WHAT exactly happens when he pulls his face away?<br /><br />Will you be enamoured by his happy little features high fiving themselves for finally landing you, or will his face be puckered up like a chicken's arse, making you immediatley jealous of Harry Potter's invisibility cloak? Will that be the moment in which you have finally sealed your next husband, or will the tortured face of a sloppy drunk dribbling a saliva waterfall linger infront of your increasingly alarmed face for several seconds too many.<br /><br />The cringe face. You can't help it, he probably can't either. Your stomach drops into your arsehole. Party over. Game Over. Done. Your coffin is sealed and noone can help you. You probably planned to drag said male friend into some quiet little spot where you can privately attempt your social experiement, and now your sense of adventure has hung itself by its own intestines. You are solo. Alone. Noone can help you now. The cringe face still lingers. Coaxing you like a haggered prostitute to return to its dirty, dark, and sin filled lair.<br /><br />There is only one option, my romantically mislead friend. Only one option in a circumstance as dire and emotionally wounding as this. Save yourself. This is a 911 situation. No time to cushion the blow. This is fight vs. flight. Emotional etiquette is entirely out of the window. Don't bother with elaborate ploys, schemes or excuses. LEAVE. Mutter something not entirely coherent under your breathe (to the sound of "Im so sorry but mneh me mneh beh hu, you know? k bye!"<br /><br />RUN.<br /><br />SAVE YOUR DIGNITY. CRINGE CONTROL.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0