Assembling a dog gate is testing my mental health. Didn’t know I needed a master’s in physics to do this. Let’s get into it.

1. JOMO

I see your fentanyl and raise you declining an invite. Now that’s a dragon I’m talkin about chasin.

I’m not interested in knowing who went to Taylor’s wedding. I want to know who got invited, turned that shit down, and give them my number.

I’m aware that I’m toeing the economic divide, but if a purebred dove showed up on my doorstep with a calligraphic invite to MSG, I’d have put that shit straight in the dumpster.

This is my go-to response to anything that doesn’t involve tax write-offs that leave a palpable dent or straight-up bribes.

I’m more interested in the odds on Kalshi.

Pushing all my chips to the center of the table on the under and tapping twice on that motherfucker.

2. Dogs

Unlike bad relationships, lettuce, or presidents, dogs are unequivocal goodness. They’re everything we can’t control, like love, healthcare, and guaranteed returns—yielding unmerited dividends.

Walter is my life’s greatest achievement, Diva is his mother, and Axel is his nephew.

There are no favorites in this household. It’s an even distribution of unbalanced obsession. While I have my own relationship with each of them, Diva and I bonded in a way that is largely unhealthy, and therefore, perfect.

Whenever I leave, she throws herself into a depression, which sounds dark, but it’s validating. She mourns me in a way no one has ever been mourned. Not since Michael Corleone mourned Apollonia.

All three idolize me with the kind of blind devotion reserved for televangelists.

If they’re not sitting on me, they’re staring at me—which is exactly how all relationships should be.

3. Air conditioning

Mamdani telling New York to keep their thermostats at 78 to protect the power grid is the kind of nonsense I live for.

It carries the same level of delusional confidence as slapping your name all over shit that gets taken down a few days later.

As mayor of Florida, it’s the kind of thing that would get you shoved out into the Atlantic Ocean. Vote that motherfucker right off the island.

I don’t trust him. 78? My guy—is this America’s greatest city, or a terrarium?

4. Being Content

It’s easy to feel like you’re missing out while standing in line at Costco, watching someone in Juicy sweatpants buy a year’s worth of toilet paper.

But as Succession taught us, generational wealth is stressful as fuck.

Growing up, I thought “making it” meant taking a taxi and wearing perfume. In my twenties, this was redefined as having a color printer and knowing what car insurance covers.

Somewhere along the way, being happy with what you have became a lack of ambition.

Contentment is deeply unsexy in a culture whose entire economy depends on convincing you that something is missing.

You don’t need whatever they’re pushing to look better. You need a week of everyone shutting the fuck up and staying at the Peninsula, London. Hyde Park view.

Not mistaking different for better? Foreplay.

5. Authenticity

Being who you are is pleasure that lasts longer than two minutes.

There’s a lot of pressure to have the right reaction to things. Sometimes it can feel overwhelming.

The same applies in reverse. Someone dying does not require a rewrite. If you thought they were an asshole on Tuesday, Wednesday can remain largely unchanged.

Feedback’s irrelevant unless you’re in the will. Then maybe be coachable.

It had everything. Fireworks, Mariah Carey (unclear), dancing stovetop espresso makers. A parade of fridge magnets come to life.

It was like watching an episode of Americans playing Family Feud; whatever they shouted came out next. Vespa! Paparazzi! Spaghetti! Godfather!

Crowds booed J.D. Vance and cheered for the lesbian hotel manager from White Lotus. The Italians delivered what no one does better: pizza theatrics.

Despite the olive oil-drenched joy pulsating from TVs across America, even the super-charged energy surrounding the Olympics has felt noticeably lessened. Another appetite, gone.

The latest release of the Epstein files has made things a bit heavy.

Here are five things worth sharing with someone you love. Because knowledge is power, and no one’s eating candy from CVS this year.

1. Where to find the files

On the ➡ Department of Justice website.

The U.S. government is an embarrassing mess; the DOJ website is no different. Navigating it doesn’t require a degree so much as patience.

This guide is helpful ➡ Epstein Files Simple Technical Guide.

Bonus video: while this guy spends a lot of time focusing on how to search Bill Clinton instead of Donny T (who is mentioned a record-breaking 38,000 times), the shortcuts he shares can be useful:

2. What to ignore

#1 Conspiracy Theorists

On August 31, 1997, I woke up to learn that Princess Diana had died. This also happened to be the same day I woke up to find I had gotten my first period.

While both tragedies senselessly changed my life forever, they remain unrelated.

Many are asking questions like “Were the Epstein files released during the Olympics/Super Bowl week on purpose?” or “Is the Nancy Guthrie disappearance related?”

Some call it a well-timed distraction. Others call it Tuesday. None of it’s the point.

#2 Pam Bondi

This piece of shit is the Attorney General. Ignore her completely.

3. What’s going to trigger you

If you are a human with a moral conscience, all of it.

4. What we can control

Not seeing the Melania movie helps.

Listening to these Academy Award-level reviews instantly made me feel better:

Supporting people like Jasmine Crockett is another way.

5. How to take care of each other

Don’t let it consume you.

For every document that’s impossible to read due to the DOJ’s Sharpieing names of pedophiles, redactions, there are three that will break you.

Being broken by this is ok. It means you’re not a shit bag—the world needs more people like you.

Surrounding yourself with as many dogs as possible brings relief, too.

That, and adjusting my meds:

Rage isn’t always irrational. Sometimes it’s the clearest evidence that your moral compass still works.

Your new playlist:

Beatrice Granno’s gorgeous rendition of That’s Amore playing in the background while everyone’s life falls apart in Taormina, Sicily, feels totes appropes.

There’s a winter storm advisory threatening to shut down half of the country this weekend. Tbh, I wasn’t concerned until I saw Ted Cruz getting on a plane.

Where ya goin, Ted? You need to hop on a hamster wheel and power this grid.

1. Heated Rivalry

If you’re watching this show, fine. If you’re watching this show and posting about yourself watching it on social media—unsubscribe from this substack. Put my blog in the fucking trash.

This gay hockey “porn” has become the flex that no one asked for. It has become the virtue signalling vehicle de jour for woke people who hate all of the following shit, but would rather die before admitting it:

• themselves

• other woke people

• tom’s of maine deodorant

• kamala harris

• $9 farmers market radishes

• listening to npr

Somehow, watching this show has turned into a public declaration of moral alignment. And it’s not enough to watch it. You have to be seen watching it.

Evidently, acceptance is no longer a value; it’s a post. And while I did achieve a dangerously low ACT score, I’m deeply skeptical that Instagram stories are doing the heavy lifting here.

I say this as someone who loves Bernie and votes accordingly: this is not activism. This is television. And the posts surrounding it are less ‘I enjoyed this’ and more ‘please notice what kind of person I am.’

It feels like the left and right do whatever they can to piss each other off. Like everyone announcing they watch gay hockey porn is going to upset everyone announcing they’re boycotting Disney for the sixth time.

Is it possible to one day live in a world where both sides aren’t actively trying to incite hate crimes against each other? Where there are more options than whatever this is:

And whatever this is:

Or between whatever this is:

And whatever this is:

Announcing that you’re watching Heated Rivalry doesn’t make you interesting. These are the same people who made sure everyone knew they were watching Glee.

Watching a gang of reformed Disney Channel stars break into Motley Crue remixes after the third period isn’t edgy or shocking the same way watching softcore gay porn on HBO isn’t edgy or shocking.

If you want to be progressive, post about watching men.com at 3 am. Or better yet, something that ends in ‘.ru’ and ruins your browser. Now THAT’S the kind of shit I want to hear about.

2. Golden Globes

After watching the National Figure Skating Championships, I didn’t bother with the Golden Globes. Nothing at that awards show was going to compete with Ilia Malinin and Andrew Torgashev back-flipping their way to Milan in leotards. So I went to bed.

Nonetheless, here are my top three observations:

1. Sean Penn ripping cowboy killers:

2. Glenn Powell still brings his parents to award shows. This is not a personality or charming. This is someone who cycles through girlfriends despite looking like an extra from Pixar’s Ratatouille.

   Leo brings his mother because he’s been doing it since he was a toddler. Glenn brings his parents because a focus group told him it plays well in Middle America. Fuck you, Glenn.

3. Mark Ruffalo is the realest of the real. The best of the best. An incredible human in every capacity. God bless you, Mark. MARK RUFFALO FOREVER + EVER + EVER + EVER.

FWIW, viewership might increase if all acceptance speeches went like this:

3. Winter Olympics

The Winter Olympics start February 6 in Milan–Cortina, a place everyone will pretend to know something about for exactly two weeks.

Which is fine, as the Olympics turn me into not only a super fan, but a coach to the elite. Sports I ignore for four straight years suddenly become matters of national importance.

I become the kind of person who says things like ‘he rushed that landing’ with absolutely no idea what I’m talking about.

I love the Olympics. I don’t know what it is about watching a bunch of strangers play sports I don’t give a shit about any other time of year, but I can’t wait.

In the meantime, you can read my summary of the 2024 Summer Olympics here.

4. Beckham family crisis

A lot is going on in the world right now that accentuates the nonsensicalness of this, but sometimes, that’s exactly when this type of masterpiece theatre is needed.

For those too busy lying on filing their taxes, and/or my mom (an avid and possibly only reader of this blog), there’s been a lot of shit going down in the Beckham family.

Their eldest son, Brooklyn, cut off communication from his parents, the hot soccer guy and the Spice Girl, and for months, there’s been speculation about why, until now, with Brooklyn putting every super sleuth in the comments section to the back of the unemployment line by formally releasing a letter addressing his decision to un-spice up his life.

Brooklyn said this was 100% necessary and the right move as Posh Spice continued to sit in the driveway of his marital home with her headlights off, softly chanting this hymn in an attempt to lure him back to the Beckham residence, where she could properly breastfeed him in private. I’m joking!

He said this family IS OVER before slam-dunking it in the trash and shouting “Kobe!” because Posh stole the show at his wedding to Ricola Nicola Peltz by hijacking their first dance.

I don’t know if this is true (or who the fuck his wife is—does anyone??), but I do know that if my Mom hijacked the first dance at my wedding, my ChatGPT would burn through whatever fossil fuels are left in this country searching for the largest Edible Arrangement possible to send to her.

When you wake up to yet another outbreak of adult acne, or you slept on your wrist funny, and now the only logical solution is to cut it off, it’s refreshing to see that some of the best-looking, wealthiest people on the planet have not figured it out, either.

Stars, they’re just like us!

5. Female Empowerment

I don’t know about you guys, but I can’t get enough of these notifications.

Every time I open a new tab, screen, or toilet seat, I’m hit with another headline that Our Lady of Ex-Amazon Guy has blessed yet another charity or organisation.

To think, she could be shuffling around in Paris, like Dirty Sanchez, playing dress up in her nana’s heels right now…

I don’t know. As fun as it looks to be Penis Head’s new wife in matching Shein power suits, I think redistributing his wealth would be so much better.

Your new playlist:

Some of you will be glad to learn that I’m alive.

I’ve been busy with financially compensated work, an ironic and fortuitous shift from working for high-fives.

Until we figure out how to increase the hours in a day or years in dogs’ lifespan, there has to be a cutback, somewhere—and yer lookin’ at it, padnuh.

1. Decluttering

Getting rid of shit has been giving me joy. So much so that it has spread to every drawer, closet, and cabinet in this house. If it’s not a dog or a carb—it’s up for review. Nothing is safe.

Editing this heavily makes my heart sing.

In the last month, I’ve taken two trips to donation centers. And I ain’t done yet, baby. Purging has been an act of self-reclamation.

Trick or treat: treat

2. iPhone Air

I was one of the last to lug around an iPhone 13 Pro Max—carpal tunnel aside, it was a great device.

When Apple announced the release of its thinnest, lightest model yet? There was no choice. I didn’t choose this phone. This phone chose me.

Trick or treat: treat

3. Good Fortune

I had no idea this movie existed. What an absolute gem. I won’t ruin it for you. See it.

Trick or treat: treat

4. Texas’ decoration game

Growing up in Chicago, I used to think pumpkins on the stoop of a 3-flat were admirable. In Florida, decorations weren’t really present or needed. That state is a hellscape of its own.

My second Halloween in Texas has been nothing short of a delight.

Trick or treat: treat

5. West End Girl

Lily Allen is back, having released her fifth album nearly eight years ago, and she's gifted us with West End Girl.

I’ve loved her since college, back to a time when I refused to let a snowstorm come between me and seeing her perform at the Riv in Chicago, some twenty-plus years ago (it was amazing, btw.).

West End Girl outlines the heartbreaking play-by-play of her recent marriage’s disintegration. I’ve never heard anything like it.

Like many of her fans, I was thrilled back in 2020 to find out that she was marrying—who else?—but fucking Chief HOPPER from Stranger Things. Who didn’t love that guy? Well, not anymore, because he fucking sucks.

Unfortunately, he was running their Brooklyn brownstone as a “Pussy Palace”. Also, a gem from the album, where in the first five seconds or so, you can hear the Stranger Things song, which is brilliant. It’s just enough to make you question if you heard it. It’s her, giving it back to him. Here—this belongs to you.

There is so much pain, but ten times empowerment.

It’s as beautiful as it is sad, and the writing is on another level. I’m biased, but I hope it gets album of the year. The fact that she wrote it in ten days is a testament to her gift.

After listening to it, I was reminded of an article I read a few years ago in The Paris Review, which I’m now digging up and linking for you here: "What Do We Do with the Art of Monsterous Men?”

Back then, I remember thinking, “Wow, that’s interesting.” What a unique perspective on something I had surely thought about but had never heard openly discussed.

Now, when I think about it, discussing what we do with the work of pieces of shit like Puffy or Woody Allen isn’t interesting at all.

All it does is keep them a part of the conversation, and quite frankly, who cares what we do with their shit? Watch it. Burn it. I don’t care. But I don’t wanna talk about it.

I’d rather talk about the people on the other side of their lyrics, or scripts—the people who survived it. And I think that’s exactly what’s happening here.

I’m less interested in figuring out what we do with the art of broken men and more interested in celebrating the art of the women they break, who, it turns out, aren’t really broken after all.

As someone once told me, “There’s nothing worse than a pretty girl losing sleep over a guy who looks like he negotiated his way onto earth.”

Something tells me she’s sleeping just fine, with the fan on medium. Love you, Lily.

Trick or treat: TREAT TREAT TREAT

Your new playlist:

It has been a week. Let’s get into it.

1. Canceling shit

Consumerism might be tanking, but Liquid Paper’s stock is skyrocketing, as The Apprentice guy continues to terrorize the nation with his whiteout, determined to slap that shit on anything he disagrees with—including history.

While my ACT score suggests I don’t understand shit about fuck, something tells me that shutting down the slavery wings of museums doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

We’ve become a nation obsessed with the delete button because the nation is being run by a toddler who can't engage in dialogue.

It seems like a lot of people are leading from a place of cancellation. While I thought anyone under 50 no longer used Facebook, I was wrong.

My time on the platform can be likened to swinging by CVS for hemorrhoid cream—a brief, embarrassing in-and-out to post my link to this page.

I was shocked to see people are posting “stories” and “reels” like they’re submitting a W2 for this shit. Opinions are flying! Trips are being taken! Meals out are being documented! Adults threatening to delete anyone who disagrees with them!

I have delusions, such as a double-digit head count at my funeral. But imagine thinking “I will unfriend you” is a devastating blow.

The fuck, Stephanie! Absolutely no one will lose sleep over a deletion.

Another one, gone! Should be the theme of this administration.

Following the climate of Charlie Kirk’s assassination, which has required a degree of Richard Simon’s level fitness.

Instead of having a leader who reduces the noise to heal a fractured country, we have one who uses tragedy and loss for personal gain.

There’s an undeniable sense of exhaustion from those who’ve advocated for gun reform long before Charlie Kirk’s death. People whose ongoing concern has been exactly that.

The rage of the Right over the issue can be assimilated to the slacker showing up on the last day of the group project, livid that the work they didn’t contribute to only got a B+.

Instead of being outraged over why this continues to happen (see: having access to assault weapons), we’ve defaulted to blaming it on a political party. The problem is guns. Period.

At some point, I hope people realize that this isn’t a leader with the country’s best interests in mind. Guy does not give a fuck about you, America.

Survey says: CANCEL CANCELLING!

2. Makeup

Everywhere I’ve lived the last six years has been too hot to bother with makeup.

Instagram pushes full glam (see: someone wheeling a suitcase full of shit into your house to make you look like a Bratz doll), but I am exhausted and hate makeup.

I would rather die alone, ugly, than pretend I know what I’m doing.

Proceed with caution.

Survey says: Cancel

3. Blaming

Every time a shooting happens, the clock starts. Conservatives tripping over one another to reveal that the perpetrator at large Is A LIBUREL.

There’s a lot of shit I don’t understand, but this is up there with Algebra and electricity.

Maybe I’m missing the point, but I stand by it being mentally unwell people having access to guns.

Fixating on whether someone is a Democrat or Republican isn’t The Move, and statistically speaking, might be something conservatives want to deemphasize.

If Republicans have led 63% of politically-fueled violence, I’d probably stop finger-pointing and just focus on fixing shit—if that’s what matters.

Oftentimes, they'll make you do homework and then be like, "I'm not reading all that."

Preserve your energy and inner peace by pushing the assignment back across the table. Early-onset hearing and vision loss have frequently been reported at the time of receipt.

At the end of the day, if anyone wanted to dunk on this, it’s women. We’re not even a datapoint in this fucking mess.

Survey says: Cancel!

4. Making shit up

Lying almost always has the opposite effect. Unless you’re telling me I look thinner or have glowing skin, I’m uninterested.

It’s confusing to understand why people lie. It seems like a lot of work with zero payoff.

If someone told you that you could use half the energy to achieve the same result, why double down on a shitty investment?

Survey says: Cancel

5. Bernie

There’s never been a better champion for the future of humanity.

Survey says: KEEP KEEP KEEPITY KEEP

Your new playlist:

A playlist? In this economy????????

Let’s get into it.

1. Honesty in the courtroom

I’ve spent exactly zero hours in a courthouse; however, I’ve watched enough TV to falsely believe I have had a prestigious career there.

People on trial tend to abandon their style in exchange for dressing like an extra from The Handmaid’s Tale.

The fashion is a steady stream of shapeless New York & Company/Men’s Wearhouse blazers paired with dusty button-downs. The kind of shit that only sees the light of day on Easter or at funerals. A lot of crosses on pendants.

Celebrities seem to be the only people side-eyeing the guidelines straight into the trash and coming ready for masterpiece theatre.

Has there ever been more refreshing testimony?

The authenticity of this dialogue would have me slamming the verdict buzzer like a Family Feud contestant and wrapping shit up in time for everyone to get home for lunch.

Survey Says: MORE

2. Telling tuition to fuck off

I’m unclear on how essential a degree is anymore.

Boomers had access to everything, like mortgages, gluten, and the ability to overlook the effects of generational trauma in exchange for living a carefree existence.

College was the infallible answer to their question of how to make a living. After graduating, no complicated or extreme measures were required to land a job. No seven-step Zoom interview processes or having to pretend to give a fuck about delivering a “high-end user experience.”

For them, getting hired meant driving around in the family Buick with their degree and slapping that shit down on the front desk. These days, the likelihood of getting a job falls somewhere between winning the Powerball and being drafted by the NFL.

Like TSA Pre-Check, having a degree has become somewhat meaningless. What used to get you to the front of the line now has you standing in a longer one. The joke is that we’re all going to be replaced in the very near future.

There’s never been a better time to tell tuition to fuck off and forget about being smart. Brains are last season. Hands are making a huge comeback. Blue-collar is the new white-collar. Mechanics are going to be getting hand jobs from radiologists who can’t afford an oil change.

The future belongs to those who can mow a lawn.

Survey Says: MORE

3. Telling Amy Coney Barrett she’s a piece of shit

Every now and again, CBS does the good Lord’s work, and on a Sunday, lets Norah O’Donnell tell Amy Coney-Barrett she’s a piece of shit (in fewer words.)

If only every day we could tell Amy she’s a piece of shit!

Amy’s a coward. Not the kind of coward who lets one rip in an elevator and then looks around like she’s Determined To Find Out WHO (although she probably does that, too). She’s the kind of coward who hides behind sexist, homophobic beliefs and calls it conservatism.

Instead of basing her principles on human rights or morality, she bases them on shit white guys said back when blood-letting and cocaine were their best solutions to a cold, see: idiots.

If you’ve ever seen me on day three of the flu, you’d know better than to introduce cocaine to that situation.

Amy’s the kind of asshole who’d return a library book late, then write a 30-page dissent arguing why due process doesn’t apply to her. Her method of operation is to tangle up underpaid, overworked systems with her Notre Dame bibble-babble. She’s the equivalent of a PTA president at a private school, the kind of asshole who smiles at you while banning books and weaponizing gender ideology.

Amy gets what she wants by appearing blandly competent. And perhaps in normal terms, she is, if having a degree makes you competent (unclear, see item two in this post).

She worked overtime on Sunday, pushing her new book by bringing it up every .53 seconds, to which I have a feeling did not boost sales. Girl, you’re boring as fuck, and your belief system is backward. Have you seen the August jobs report? Nobody has cash to burn. They’re too busy trying to get hired by companies whose HR departments are telling their CEOs, “Don’t worry, boss, we’re monitoring for AI-written apps and DELETING!!” while having no fucking clue what the abbreviation “AI” even stands for.

"People outside the court say a lot of things, and we have to tune that out and listen to...what people have decided". What people, you and Brett Kavanaugh?

Amy, I wouldn’t listen to you if you were the instruction label on the parachute of a free-falling airplane. I’d fucking throw that thing right and jump left.

Nah, I’m straight. I don’t need your $24.99 hardcover. I've read your opinion that inserts your religion as a judicial authority. You absolutely use your own belief system to make decisions. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness, and yet, we have a Supreme Court that supports oppression.

Amy—abortion is healthcare, and Supreme Court Justices should not be writing books that they receive $2 million deals for, including a $450,000 advance.

Survey Says: If only we could tell Amy she’s a piece of shit every day. MORE!

4. Being honest about winning

When people are asked what they’d do with a big jackpot, answers can turn into long-winded diatribes of humanitarian efforts that most of their relatives would call bullshit.

Instead of pretending you’d wipe out disease or illiteracy, say what you’re really gonna do, like Susie:

She’s fed up with the University of Alabama’s football progrum, and willing to pay off the dickheads ruining it. She’s not looking to end world hunger—she’s looking to end losing streaks.

This is a woman who knows exactly what she wants and isn’t afraid to get the extortion ball rolling. If I won the jackpot, I’d tell you exactly what I’d do. I’d march my ass down to the Supreme Court and Venmo Amy Coney-Barrett and Brett Kavanaugh to infinity, and beyyyyyyyond!!!

Survey Says: MORE

5. Not faking it

Everyone’s exhausted.

One of my dogs has had diarrhea for two days, and my inbox resembles Roman Roy’s.

When I’m not wiping assholes or responding to, “Hey! Do you have a quick sec?”, the last thing I want to do is anything. And I think that’s perfectly normal.

Unless you’re taking me on an all-expenses-paid vacation to a five-star hotel in a foreign country where the locals and I can’t understand each other (at least until the new AirPods come out), I will be at home in bed with my dogs.

Some people want you to go out because they’re counting on you doing the socializing for them. This is an act of terrorism. Do not negotiate.

If you have no choice and must go, brush up on selective mutism here. But honestly, you’re probably better off replying with this and putting your shit on airplane mode:

Survey Says: MORE

Your new playlist:

Many things confuse me that I don’t care to understand.

However, there are some things I want to know more about. Like the Shen Yun Dancers’ marketing budget, which seems to quadruple Apple’s.

Let’s review five things and give them the big clear or unclear.

1. Tutoring centers that sound like energy drinks

Few things blow my mind like sending an eight-year-old to a place called “Kidz Klub” to learn how to spell.

The number of these places that are misspelled or made out of imaginary words is insane. Mathnasium. Zearn. Sylvan. Tuteria. Tuteria’s what my dogs get after eating green beans.

Kumon? Kumon. According to sources (see: ChatGPT), it’s the founder's last name, which makes it pointless to everyone but him.

My guy, you did not cure polio. Skip the vanity branding and call it “Learn Math” so we know what we’re paying for.

Survey Says: *Slams Buzzer* UNCLEAR.

2. Hunting Wives

What it is: a show on Netflix about six women without jobs or GEDs who love social media, shitty margaritas, and calling their husbands “kings.”

Oh—and against all probability, every one of them is a closeted lesbian.

This show is a joke! I have never seen a worse on-screen performance in my life, and I saw CATS twice, against my will.

Hunting Wives wants you to think it’s progressive because women go down on each other every 15 minutes. This is called performative feminism.

Rather than treating women’s sexuality as a lived experience, it uses it as spectacle. This show has no interest in advocating authentic queer stories or women’s voices!

If you want to see a real lesbian movie, watch Carol. If you're not gay by the end, you don’t have a pulse.

Despite mirroring the energy of a Hooters calendar, Hunting Wives was written by a woman. The fuck!

A walking reminder that not all female storytellers are helping move the needle forward. Some are shoving it backward with both hands.

Watching this trash made me feel cheap and sad. And that’s saying a lot coming from someone whose death-row meal includes Chick-fil-A, Dairy Queen, and a pack of Marlboro silvers.

The hardest working actor on Hunting Wives was Malin Akerman’s wig, and even that was a bust.

Survey Says: *Slams Buzzer* UNCLEAR.

3. Weapons (the movie, not real ones)

What it is: A movie about 17 third-grade students who vanish at 2:17 a.m. that unfolds through the eyes of a teacher, a father, a cop, a principal, and a junkie.

*If you haven’t seen it and don’t want any spoilers, this is your warning.*

I usually cannot with horror, but the trailer led me to think it wouldn’t upend my life the way a Saw movie would, and I was right.

Weapons is filled with its fair share of gory scenes, but never overdone. Take it from a pussy: it’s just enough to keep you on the edge of your seat without having to leave the room.

I’m a huge Madigan fan. I had no idea she was in this, and was blown away by her performance as Aunt Gladys.

Her ability to effortlessly float from pouring on fake charm to being an outright psychopath is incredible. I know a lot of people who could benefit from this kind of masterclass, and they’re all on LinkedIn.

Real horror fans might feel somewhat disappointed. After all, the consensus here is that a witch came to town with a dead plant and used its branches to control everyone.

While some might want more details on the likelihood of that, all I want to know is when we get Weapons 2. Tell me all about that beautiful lunatic’s story.

I loved it. Mainly because it’s the first time I’ve seen a horror film since 1941 that didn’t fuck with my sleep.

Survey Says: *Slams Buzzer* CLEAR.

4. The President’s time allocation

The world is not short of ugly logos to discuss. Just look at Kumon’s.

The current administration has found bandwidth to weigh in on the new Cracker Barrel logo.

While I think it’s perfectly reasonable for the rest of us morons to discuss this kind of crap, I’m not sure this is the best use of the President’s time.

I don’t know. The logo has always been ugly. Who cares.

Survey Says: *Slams Buzzer* UNCLEAR.

5. Burning Man

What it is: Every year, a bunch of assholes with disposable income dress up like extras from Mad Max: Fury Road to take acid and set shit on fire in the desert for nine days, starting on the last Saturday in August, ending on Labor Day.

What people think they look like:

What they actually look like:

How it started: In 1986, a small group of friends burned an 8-foot wooden figure on Baker Beach in San Francisco, as “a means to create a temporary community centered on creativity, radical self-expression, and self-reliance, then dismantling it without leaving a trace.” Straight hippy shit.

How it seems to be going: It has since moved to the Black Rock Desert in Nevada as an annual gathering of misguided, middle-aged men riding tricycles with exposed genitals caked in dust, and women wearing confusing costumes from Amazon.

Think: People ducking in and out of dirty tents, dancing awkwardly in front of fires, and forever measuring their lives as “before the burn,” and “after it.”

Diehards have been known to bring their kids, defending it as a rare opportunity for them to participate in a cultural, life-shaping experience; i.e., running around unsupervised, filthy, naked, while digging through trash cans.

Once rooted in radical self-reliance, it now serves as an opportunity for the 1% to pretend to rough it in the desert, sharing footage of their bravery, resilience, and courage on X and Instagram.

Recent years have brought on torrential rainstorms and mud-induced flooding. Seeing the psychedelic warriors struggle as they attempt to flee their makeshift villages is not easy; it’s also hard to feel bad when it’s hardship as a hobby.

If you’re into sustainability, this may not be the event for you. Critics say it’s a tremendous waste of resources, from the single-use polyester outfits to the crap that’s constructed and demolished.

The amount of fuel wasted via hours of cars and campers idling on the way to and from this hellscape could power a small country.

What they think they look like:

What they actually look like:

Maybe a week at Burning Man could give box seats at the U.S. Open and a room at the Peninsula a run for its money. But something tells me absolutelyfuckingnot.

Survey Says: *Slams Buzzer* UNCLEAR.

Your new playlist:

Along with the reset came a healthy dose of nostalgia.

One of the top five moments from the best show of all time is Don Draper nailing the Kodak pitch, a scene where he defines nostalgia.

Don could sell a timeshare in Chornobyl. It wasn’t just his flawless execution.

It was the seamless injection of palpable emotion into a product. Allegedly, what true advertising is. Sheer brilliance.

I miss many things.

Hearing my parents’ parties downstairs from the coziness of my bed. Calling a movie theatre for show times. Watching the smoke from a cigar wrap itself in the warm glow of the light above the kitchen stove. Wishing for death on report card day.

Influencers’ #TakeMeBack content suggests their memories are from curated vacations. Mine are from the back of a station wagon. Get in.

1. We ate whatever was served

Dining out can be a lot. Between reservations, dietary restrictions, and Ozempic, pleasing everyone is a tall order.

I miss the days when sugar or cholesterol problems didn’t stop anyone from making dinner plans; we just left that shit undiagnosed and got in the car.

Technology has us monitoring our health on bracelets, rings, and watches, but we don’t seem to be extending our warranties much.

In the south suburbs of Chicago, White Fence Farm was where you went for mediocre fried chicken, corn fritters, and a museum of farm equipment.

It also gave me the rare opportunity to showcase my talents in front of my cousins, a group of overachieving, honor roll-loving assholes who had no idea what to do around farm animals.

For twenty-five cents, I got a handful of goat feed and the chance to show them who was boss.

2. My Grandparents’ House

If Ed McMan showed up on my doorstep and offered me an all-expense-paid trip to anywhere in the world, I would negotiate the impossibility of going to a place that no longer exists.

My grandparents’ place was a tiny one-story two-bedroom one-bathroom house in a sleepy town that once held the title of “hog capital of the world.”

If it were summer, Memaw’s rose bushes would be in bloom. If it were winter, they’d be insulated by styrofoam containers.

The front door was for the mailman and Jehovah’s Witnesses. Everyone else knew to go around back, where you were greeted by a seasonally dressed goose and two Maltese.

It smelled of fresh laundry, and you’d find Memaw at the kitchen table, which functioned more as a desk, holding piles of neatly folded newspapers, remote controls, and medications.

By day, it was a place of coffee and Law and Order. By night, it was a place of Cubs games and cross-stitching.

The kitchen cabinets had Pringles and Chex Mix. The fridge had Boku and Klondike bars. Paradise.

The front room’s candy dishes had M&M’s and Werthers. The linen closet smelled of Dove soap.

I spent the first half of my life there and will spend the rest of my life preserving it. In a way, I think the past we protect becomes our compass.

3. Handwritten Notes Beat Any Text Message

I love good mail. Not “Capital One thinks you’re pre-approved” or Gutter Guard flyers. I mean the kind of mail someone writes by hand.

Sending someone a “HBD!!” text before you Venmo your landlord is mid behavior. You’re better off just telling them you hate them.

When your life is a constant rotation of junk mail and a feed full of assholes reminding you to use a gratitude journal before taking a cold plunge, an actual letter is one thing that still feels singularly real.

4. Lifetime guarantees

I’m currently corresponding with three different manufacturers regarding appliances.

Once upon a time, if you bought a blender and it died twenty-seven years later, you could march that shit into Sears, slam it on the counter, and receive a refund.

Today’s version of a lifetime guarantee is a “limited warranty” that expires as soon as you pull out of the parking lot. Which basically translates to “the product’s lifetime”, or approximately six months, whatever comes first, provided you don’t attempt to use it for its intended purpose.

Customer Service: What seems to be the problem?

Me: It won’t turn on.

Customer Service: Did you plug it in?

Me: Yes.

Customer Service: WELL WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR???????

5. Being unreachable was normal

Once upon a time, no one knew where the fuck you were. This privilege disappeared somewhere in the late 90s/early Y2K, before I had the chance to fully appreciate it.

If this happens now, you wind up on Dateline or pissing people off.

Growing up in a middle-class family (a mythological socioeconomic status in today’s caste system), it was peak luxury when my Mom’s car was blessed with a phone.

The car phone allowed for serious business, like calling Dad to get his McDonald’s order or to find out if anyone had fed the dogs. I felt like we were clearly on our way to becoming the kind of people who had one of these in their foyer:

In high school, I carried my sister’s defunct pager around with the urgency of an ER doctor. No one was paging me—partly because I was fifteen and sitting in pre-algebra (for the second year in a row), but mostly because it was broken.

Whatever eagerness I had for that kind of communication died by the time I reached my twenties. I no longer aspired to be the kind of person people reached out to—a sentiment I maintain to this day.

I’m thinking of going back to a landline, but only if it’s rotary and French.

HBD today to one of the best.

Your new playlist:

If a few years in the spotlight won’t buy you a lifetime out of it—what’s the point?

Here are five things fighting harder for relevance than your aunt on Facebook during election season.

1. J Lo

Surrounded by her closest family and friends backup dancers and staff, footage from J.Lo’s annual “lookatme! lookatme!” celebration has once again “leaked” (see: signed Blu-ray copies of Gigli were sent to anyone willing to repost it.)

The spontaneous and unrehearsed video circulating on social media has many viewers acknowledging the lack of guests, calling it a low-budget spectacle. This could not be further from the truth, given that everyone in the video is paid.

Including the security guard who looks like every miserable Dad who’s ever chaperoned a ten-year-old’s birthday party at Discovery Zone.

The former Mrs. Noa, Mrs. Judd, Mrs. Anthony, Mrs. Affleck didn’t always get to spend her birthday dancing in front of baked goods.

Some were ruined by her fat, lazy, Red Sox-loving ex-husband in his mediocre attempt to rent out L'Opéra in St Tropez. Throwing her a private party in the South of France? Fucking rude!

Nothing screams “your loss!” in your ex’s face like making everyone on payroll dress up as colonizers and having Entertainment Tonight document it.

He’s going to be in a world of regret after watching you reenact slavery with your staff.

Some celebrities want a night off to hide behind a costume—but J Lo doesn’t have this problem. No one has known who she is for years, or possibly ever.

I used to feel like a loser every time I took my Memaw to bingo and had to reintroduce myself to her friends who were riddled with dementia. Not anymore!! Stars—they’re just like us.

While everyone else’s props are malfunctioning and falling from the ceiling, J Lo’s standing in the doorway of her Production Manager’s office, demanding, “WHY NOT MINE, GOD DAMNIT??? WHY ARE MINE WORKING!!!!”

Taking matters into her own hands, she scheduled suffered a “mishap” last week at the Warsaw stop of her “Up All Night: Live in 2025” tour.

At the end of the show, her skirt “fell off.”

Exclaiming, “I’m out here in my underwear! That’s gonna be everywhere!” before flinging it into the crowd.

Forget how many times you rehearsed this; the interwebs ain’t havin it. No one’s fooled by the props that you got, Jenny from the block. Slams buzzer #NEXT.

2. Astronomer, the company that has nothing to do with astronomy.

Fun fact: It’s called Astronomer because ‘Airflow Consultants, LLC’ didn’t clear the Series A funding call. JK! I made that up—but it could be true.

The boring-ass company nobody cares about, previously led by adulterer/former CEO Andy Byron, blew their emergency casino money (a stash that all good Nanas keep) on a video featuring Gwyneth Paltrow as their “very temporary” spokesperson.

The clip is short and dumb as hell. IMO, if you haven’t seen it, don’t bother.

Unrelated, here is my favorite Gwyneth courtroom look from earlier this year:

Some praised the video clip as a creative PR stunt that defused tension and garnered significant brand awareness.

Despite 99% of the population still not knowing or caring what the fuck “Apache Airflow” is, the Astronomers believe their video was a huge success! Corporate Communications Team, One, America, Zero!

Using humor to defuse fallout is a fair strategy for an appliance that only works when you unplug it. However, if your airplanes are falling apart or people in charge are fucking, it’s probably not “the move.” Mainly because it sidesteps the fact that your company is run by assholes.

“Apache Airflow” sounds like a colonoscopy offered at a luxury resort in Sedona. Slams buzzer #NEXT.

3. Scientology claims another victim

The 71-year-old religious cult is one member closer to total world domination, thanks to Jerry Maguire.

Tom Cruise’s latest victim brings their total number of 25,000 followers to a record-breaking 25,001. Meaning they can officially tell Christianity’s 2.4 billion practicing believers to suck it because this is what pulling real numbers looks like.

Despite having a list of exes who will gladly tell you he’s a fucking lunatic, Maguire continues his hot streak of Tom Foolery, begging the question: what size blindfold is he using, and is it the same one he used on Nicole Kidman in Eyes Wide Shut?

It’s easy to wonder what the fuck Ana’s thinking—but now is not the time for victim shaming. We don’t know what kind of sorcery Maverick is on.

This is an inside job best left to the Gemstones. Slams buzzer #NEXT.

4. The Masterson Supporter Shuffle

In Vegas on Saturday at the Backstreet Boys concert (can you believe people pay money to go to this shit?), Diddy’s BFF Ashton Kutcher and wife Mila Kunis “were caught” (see: slipped the cameraman a twenty) dancing in a way that suggested they’d just learned what music was.

Giving the same over-performance as a couple pretending to have fun in an insurance commercial, the morons got to work with their magic erasers, hoping to wipe the public’s memory clean of their unwavering support for convicted rapist Danny Masterson.

In 2023, Masterson (another Scientology fuck) was found guilty on two counts of forcible rape and sentenced to 30 years to life in prison.

During the trial, after hearing the victims’ harrowing testimony, Kutcher and Kunis submitted letters in his support, with Kutcher calling him “extraordinarily honest” and Kunis describing him as a father figure with “exceptional character.”

The letters confirmed many things. For one, Ashton is the kind of dumb fuck who still double-spaces after a period.

These letters are not neutral character references. They’re calculated interventions, written with full knowledge of the charges and the testimony.

The entitlement in assuming they have a place in this conversation—that their proximity to Masterson should influence a judge’s sentencing in a case as violent and damaging as this—is staggering. This is the mindset of people who have never had to reckon with the reality of male violence because privilege has always kept them at arm’s length from it.

Slams buzzer #NEXT.

5. Katy Perry’s knee pads

Nothing in the history of everything has worked harder than the former Blue Origin astronauts’ knee pads.

Even the air vent in Trump’s bathroom feels bad for them. Slams buzzer #NEXT.

In memory of Bob Glickman.

Bob was the purest, most gentle soul I knew. He had a heart of gold. A friend to all, enemy to none.

Any amount of time I spent with him always left me wanting to be a better person. May every dog he’s ever loved be smothering him with kisses as I write this.

Rest easy, my friend.

Your new playlist:

Like Donald’s pants—no matter how hard you try, some budgets just don’t fit. Let’s trim the fat.

1. Whoever’s operating the animatronics at concerts

While concerts have been having a big year, it’s probably not for the right reasons. Shit has been going down, literally, from affairs to J Lo’s reputation to Beyoncé and Katy Perry’s floats. Things are a mess.

Once upon a time, “catching a show” meant a band, a stage, and a mic; when the only technology at a concert was an amp. Not kinetic domes, 47 LED screens, and enough lasers to send your Memaw into epileptic shock.

Rock and roll used to be an adjective.

It’s hard to say if all the unnecessary spices from the fuckery jar are to justify sky-rocketing ticket prices or in response to the nation’s ADD diagnosis. Either way, the animatronics people are fucking shit up and need to go.

Beyoncé’s convertible malfunctioned while on tour in Houston, dropping suddenly from the ceiling while performing. She did not fall out.

Prop malfunction claimed yet ANOTHER VICTIM a few weeks later:

During the San Francisco stop of her award-winning Lifetimes tour, the former Blue Origin astronaut ethereally floated in on a silver-winged penis butterfly until the prop jolted from suspension, unseating her.

Concerts don’t need flying cars or dicks. That’s what Tomorrowland is for. Cut it from the budget. #HitsGavel

2. AP classes in middle school

The Nova program at my middle school was run by a neighborhood woman who, despite not being Asian, desperately wanted everyone to think she was Yoko Ono. She and her husband were academic narcissists whose house smelled like mold and van’s license plate said “Shakspere".

They adopted two sisters from Korea, one was in my grade. She bit people, licked people, and threw food—total chaos. But her mom ran Nova, so she was obviously in the program. It was early academic nepotism, and we were supposed to believe it was based on some Rorschach finger painting bullshit and not proximity to Yoko’s compost bin of a home.

My childhood best friend was also in Yoko’s program. I had a hard time understanding this. That bitch was an idiot. She spent most of her time running around on her hands like a horse during recess.

I watched this unfold for three years from the cafeteria while eating meatball subs. The whole setup was absurd. These weren’t prodigies. They were eleven-year-olds with undiagnosed autism. No dis to autism, holla!

Many former Chosen Ones have taken their angst to the streets Reddit, where they’re now venting about it, calling it “gifted child burnout syndrome.” Blaming everyone for now leading an entirely ordinary and underwhelming life. Like the fucking rest of us.

Middle school AP isn’t enrichment. It’s an academic caste system where some sixth graders are misled into believing they're better than their peers because they were moved up to long division a few months early, while still lying about brushing their teeth at night.

Cut it from the budget. #HitsGavel

3. Drew Barrymore

The Drew Barrymore Show premiered in September 2020, right as Ellen’s empire was collapsing due to allegations of being an asshole.

Armed with her feathered pen and the unwavering belief that sitting on all her guests would win back the hearts of America, Josie Grossie capitalized on the moment, unleashing a new reign of terror.

Her brand of daytime empathy involved petting Martha Stewart mid-interview and asking what made her feel “soft and gooey.”

In her interview with VP Harris, inches away from her face, she asked, “Can I call you Momala?”

Drew strikes me as the kind of person who railroads introductions by blurting out "I’m a hugger!”

Drew was called out on her shit and responded in an August 24 interview saying, “I’ll try to practice physical distance, which is not [my] strong point.”

Imagine Letterman curling up on the couch next to a guest and stroking their arm mid-sentence. Asking the VP if he can call her "Mommy," only to turn around and say that maintaining boundaries during interviews is not in his comfort zone.

In what world does that make sense. I’ll tell you what kind—the one where CBS funds four more seasons of this idiot harassing strangers and cancels Colbert.

Cut it from the budget. #HitsGavel

4. Lifestyle apartment buildings

These buildings have gained significant momentum in the last decade.

Divorcée dens are the overpriced, under-souled dwellings with names like The Scout, Alto Nine, The Rowan Collective, Wren at Alta Edge District, or The Amli by Juniper.

Not sure if your building is a divorcée den—take this quiz:

1. Is there a shit load of vinyl flooring?

2. Does the website feature “live-work-play” propaganda and overemphasize its two pool grills and “Flex Work Suite”?

3. Does the name of the building start in a lowercase serif font that ends in a punctuation mark (*oliv. * nest& modo/)?

4. Are the floating shelves in the lobby holding exactly three architecture books, a matte ceramic vase, and a decorative knot?

5. Do people actively avoid each other?

6. Are 90% of the dogs Frenchies and Labradoodles?

If you answered yes to two or more of these questions, you are a resident of Vélo at Ember Rise, and may God have mercy on your lease.

I briefly lived in one of these shit holes in Delray Beach. It was a nightmare I’ve paid a lot of money to forget.

Should you currently be in the throes of a lifestyle apartment, it’s a grim situation best treated with a sense of humor.

The Curated Resident Experience Team doesn’t give a fuck about the trash chutes not working or skunk weed coming from next door. If you have to report an issue, blow their minds, and do it with humor.

Cut it from the budget. #HitsGavel

5. U.S. Secretary of Health and Human Services

If your health policy involves banning vaccines, demonizing America’s best snack ever, and taking advice from someone whose “credentials” are TikTok posts—Cut it from the budget. #HitsGavel

Your new playlist:

Tomatoes are currently at an all-time high.

1. Nails

I don’t have, want, or care about them. As a female, this is strike one. To be a successful influencer means having nice nails to tap on shit like bottles, boxes, or whatever else you’re getting paid in Dogecoin to push.

A manicure supposedly represents cleanliness. I find anything that encumbers the cooking, cleaning, day-to-day living process (i.e., wiping your ass) unhygienic.

A hundred years ago, I had a manicure for my wedding. We all know how that turned out.

On average, seven out of my ten fingers are bleeding because I naw on them relentlessly. Writing is an unglamorous business. You can take the anxiety out of the girl, Lexapro, but not her lifelong habits, too.

I also lack a skincare routine, unless popping zits or sleeping with mascara on counts. #followmeformoreideas.

2. Unboxing crap

The only shit showing up on my doorstep these days is floor cleaner and dog food.

Since quitting corporate, I wear the same thing every day. My closet is a mausoleum of a past life that I’d rather not revisit.

I’m not looking to double down so much as I am to delete it.

I ran out of foundation two months ago. Instead of picking it up, I set a reminder on my phone to reorder it before a wedding. Needs must.

3. “A lot of you are asking me about…”

Nothing. And they’re probably not asking influencers anything, either.

Unless you’re my Mom, my therapist, my dog’s vet, or ChatGPT, our work is done here.

4. Feigned Positivity

I can count on less than one hand the number of things that genuinely excite me. If it doesn’t involve free healthcare, comped vet bills, or people telling me I look unwell (aka you’ve lost weight), I’m out.

The thought of pretending to give a shit about sharing coupon codes, giveaways, or discounted courses is what makes prostitution a more viable option than influencing.

5. Content

The homonym here suggests being at ease; in influencer terms, it means waking up every day and choosing violence.

I lack the ability and patience to make video clips of myself at 5 am, staring soullessly at my espresso machine, questioning my existence, whose purpose, arguably, is less than that of the machine itself.

All I need to know about my potential as a content creator was captured by my Ring cam last week.

Answering the door for the lawn fertilizer guy while keeping dogs from escaping and getting attacked by wasps. Screaming like a Victorian ghost.

Your new playlist:

Everything here is, in fact, bigger. So something tells me I’m about to get a Roman Candle shoved up my colon and my ass blown out.

I’m not particularly fond of this holiday. It terrorizes animals, and no matter where I’ve lived, I end up picking shit up off my lawn the next day.

Historically speaking, any time you give Cabela’s target market a day off and a reason to drink, things take a turn.

July 5th (2023) also marks the day I lost my Joe. So pour some out, or blaze one up for him, if you can.

Whether you’re like me and will be spending the day medicating/monitoring yourself and your dog(s), or if you’re the Grand Marshal, here are five things to discuss with your constituents over a hot dog. Let’s go.

1. Kristi Noem

This asshole is somehow the US Secretary of Homeland Security.

This bitch is problematic for many reasons. Her rise, including her recent cabinet nomination, hinges more on Trump alignment than on actual experience. Raise your hand if this sounds familiar and your name is RFK Jr.

But that’s politics. Let’s approach this in layman’s terms and start with the fact that she SHOT HER FUCKING DOG.

In her memoir (which I’ll never read), she admitted to blasting her 14-month-old dog, describing it as “untrainable” and “which I hated.”

GIRL—is this true? If so, it’s probably the most disturbing shit I’ve ever read.

Her same dumb ass book was also criticized for factual inaccuracies, which many see as “a sign of poor judgment and overdramatic image-crafting.” Shocking.

ICE Barbie reportedly received an $80,000 commission in 2023 for fundraising through a “dark money” nonprofit (American Resolve Policy Fund) while serving as governor and failed to disclose it in public ethics filings.

As far as government appropriated funds go, how the fuck is that possible? If I’m .99 cents off on my tax return, the IRS sends me a certified letter threatening to take away my life’s worth (see: two t-shirts and a box of Ultra Tampax tampons).

After accusing tribal leaders of colluding with Mexican drug cartels without evidence, nine tribal nations banned her from their lands, totaling close to 20% of South Dakota.

As one of the (many) citizens living on stolen land, I’d caution fucking with the people from whom we took it.

She backed bans on teaching “divisive concepts” (lol) and restricted gender-affirming care for minors, supporting laws allowing religious-based discrimination against LGBTQ+ individuals.

Tell me you’re from the dark ages without telling me you’re from the dark ages.

ICE Barbie visited two detention facilities—one in El Salvador (CECOT) and Alligator Alcatraz.

In both cases, she deliberately positioned herself in front of caged prisoners during staged photo/video sessions.

Disturbing is an understatement. None of them has been tried—yet they’re already punished.

I’m a yes for citizenship and a hard no for concentration camps.

The only person I’m good with being in a cage is Harvey Weinstein. Oh, and her boss.

2. …DJT

3. LinkedIn

Any opportunity to throw this hellscape into the burn pit is what I’m talking about.

Telling your former colleague that you’re excited for “what the future holds for them”- why, what the fuck are they doing? Running the same reports with a different email signature? Who cares.

If they’re not throwing their laptop into the sea and blow torching their LinkedIn page, NEXT.

Corporate America is wild. It’s possibly the last place left on earth where everyone’s using words like ‘thrilled’ and ‘honored’ while absolutely dead besides the White House.

Daddy, why did you spend $44B on Twitter when you could’ve bought LinkedIn for $300k and blown this shit hole off the map.

4. Whoever’s responsible for SoHo House

What it claims to be: a space for people in the "creative industries” to collaborate.

What it is: It’s essentially Restoration Hardware, with $28 avocado toast and a key card for start-up bros.

What real creatives can afford this membership?

If I want to feel poor, I can open my banking app on my phone. I don’t need a membership club that makes me feel like I’m trespassing in my own tax bracket.

SoHo House is where you overhear a grown man say “emotional architecture” with a straight face.

@henryrowleyyThe forced nonchalance #london #sohohouse

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SoHo house checklist:

1. Are they pumping a sickening amount of “Santal” through the air vents? Does it stick to your clothes/hair hours after?

2. Are you drinking a cocktail made of ingredients that sound like a garden center and cost more than your phone bill?

I’ve never gone to these dumps by choice, and calling it a dump is a favor, because what I respect is a sturdy dive.

I’ve gone for meetings, and it’s always been an old dude with the membership.

If you want to feel better, that’s what any airport Chili’s is for. No one's okay in Chili’s before noon—you’ll be in great company.

If someone tells you they’re a member of Soho House, don’t do business with them. That’s not a serious person. You don’t close deals at Soho House.

You want to know what house deals get done in? Waffle House.

Buffett goes to McDonald’s. Walton went to Fred’s Hickory Inn.

Could you ever imagine Tony Soprano walking into a SoHo House? Fuhgeddaboudit. He went to Dunkin’. And the Bing.

5. Videoing fireworks

Your new playlist:

Let’s lighten the mood.

1. Orlando is Blooming

Legolas has awoken from a ten-year spell cast by none other than the United States’ least qualified Astronaut, breaking off their engagement.

Truthfully, I never understood this couple. Orlando strikes me as the kind of guy who values a partner of substance. Someone who reads books, uses multi-syllable words, and whose most significant achievement extends past “Guest Judge” for seven consecutive seasons on American Idol.

His former lovers include Miranda Kerr and Kate Bosworth—two women who parlayed early fame into the steady success of their own businesses.

I’m not sure what Katy has done besides escape Pentecostalism and Russel Brand. (To which point, I feel tremendous empathy for anyone being married to a complete dirtbag who divorces you via text.) But THIS WAS HER MOMENT. And she capitalized on it(!!) in her 2012 Part of Me documentary—and it hit!

Yes, she spent that tour wearing (literal) shit emoji costumes and blue wigs, but who didn’t blast Teenage Dream that year? It was her world, and we were living in it. Forget that our only other options were Ne-Yo and the Far East Movement.

Somewhere between then and now (closer to then and not now), she stagnated. Instead of working on her vocals or firing and hiring a better team to make her decisions, she pulled a Sheryl Sandberg and Leaned In to her mess.

She turned the behavior of someone going through a phase into an identity, and we’ve been hanging on for the comeback. But the thing is, Katy—we’re exhausted.

We’re out here trying to pay bills and fight acne. We can’t keep waiting for your metamorphosis. It’s been twenty years. Taking Ozempic and fumbling around on stage in a Starship Trooper costume isn’t it.

After getting Frodo to Middle-earth and fucking Jack Sparrow up in all seventeen Pirates of the Caribbean movies, Orlando’s career has been strangely quiet. We can only assume that managing a household and a relationship with Commander Cringe has monopolized his time.

The good news here is that he’s cut ties with someone who went to space for 10 minutes and 21 seconds and then told the rest of us “to take up space” via self-aggrandizing messaging. Perpetually tone deaf.

I just hope this isn’t one of those “conscious uncoupling” breakups that Gwyneth spearheaded. Fuck that. Tell us how bad the bathroom stinks when she’s done in there.

2. The Bezos/Dirty Sanchez Wedding is Happening

According to my sources (see: Instagram), the Amazon Guy is getting married today to his home-wrecking sweetheart, Fox 11 Los Angeles’s very own Dirty Sanchez.

After terrorizing the city of Paris with horrendous fashion choices and a two-week-long bachelorette party, the bride-to-be has repacked her bags/the entire Kardashian family, and infiltrated Italy. As expected, the Venetians are not happy about this.

While money can buy a lot of things, the city of Venice has spoken: “We’re not for sale!!” The locals are revolting, and in true Italian form, they’ve taken it to the streets.

While Jeff and Lauren are pushing true love in everyone’s faces, the Venetians are making their feelings clear by deploying fake blow-up dolls of the groom in the river and hoisting banners from bridges.

Italy isn’t just home to theater—it helped invent it, from ancient Roman drama to opera to the wildly influential Commedia dell’arte. We can’t know what else is coming, but we can be certain that this is only the beginning.

It’s unclear why Italy was volunteered as tribute for the marital nuptials of these assholes. True, I can admit to googling “Clooney Alamuddin Wedding” 76 times a week for the sake of fantasizing what it must be like to have Amal’s effortless style/intelligence/hair/skin.

There are few wedding moments as chic or burned in my mind as George and his come-to-life dream waving from a water taxi named “Amore.”

You can’t replicate the real deal. Bezos of all people should know this—half of Amazon is just Temu with Prime shipping.

Yesterday, he was explicitly turned away from docking in Venice’s main canals. This is what happens when you want to dock your 417-foot super-yacht in central Venice. You piss everyone off and have to park that shit offshore and fly in by helicopter.

I’m not sure what they expected. Has he not seen The Godfather’s one through three (even though three technically count), Scarface, or a single season of The Sopranos?

Italians don’t play.

I hope Mackenzie’s opening the good shit tonight.

3. Everyone’s Hot

A heatwave is ruining everyone’s life

Everyone is sweating through their clothing.

While I don’t take pleasure in others’ pain, it’s comforting to know I’m not the only person who feels like they’re going through pre menopause on an ongoing basis.

4. Bernie was on Joe Rogan

There are few 83-year-olds I know as clear and capable as Our Lord and Savior Sanders. The fact that he willingly did Rogan is where it’s at.

5. My Dogs

Your new playlist:

I lost my Memaw 3.8 years ago. Give me just five more minutes with that woman, and I’ll give you everything I don’t use—including my ovaries, a kidney, and brain.

She taught me that happiness was nothing more than a bike ride and a Klondike bar. A walk with the dogs in Windmont Park. A trip to Wally-mart in the van. And a Hallmark card, scribbled in illegible black ink.

That love was an unquestionable, ongoing experience of being in her stratosphere, and all I needed to guide me through whatever’s next.

Life is not easy. The amount of punches it throws at us can rival the length of One Big Asshole’s Beautiful Bill. Sometimes that means rejecting a bad president, boss, or friend.

There are numerous podcasts, newsletters, and influencers perpetuating the business of compliance culture, offering surface-level advice coated in toxic positivity. This isn’t one of them.

This blog is a mixed bag. Sometimes you learn why Pitbull’s music sounds like what Red Bull tastes like, and sometimes you learn how generative empowerment can move you through pain. My ability to weed through the bullshit was my Memaw’s gift to me.

Don’t ever forget your power—or let a bitch take it from you. Let’s fucking go.

1. Reject the carrier.

Viruses feed off the weak.

At forty-one, I’ve lost friendships, certainty, and facial elasticity. Spoiler alert: I only care about one of these things, and it’s not the cheap hooker I deleted and am about to dunk on.

Specifically speaking, the hooker who rolled into my home, on the rails of my generosity, peddling sleep patches and an insulting level of Mister-Steal-Yo-Gurl energy.

When she said she was moving and needed a place to stay, I knew better than to open my doors to a monkey wielding a machine gun. This was one of those times when you make the wrong decision, rooted in good intentions. Despite everything inside of me saying no, I said yes.

To say I have a history with this idiot is an understatement. Years ago, a much younger version of me wasted a sickening amount of time and energy on a deeply one-sided relationship.

In normal terms, that might mean answering one am crisis calls or texting a number they find on their husband’s phone.

In her case, it meant sourcing vaginal antibiotics, cocaine, and an endless supply of liquor while turning your home/life/mental health/skin clarity/entire list of phone contacts/routine/wellbeing into a boundary-less dumpster.

I removed myself from the friendship years ago. Given how much time had passed, I wanted to believe she had evolved. Spoiler alert: Lol.

2. Observe.

Hosting a virus is an unpleasant experience.

The stages of infection are intense and spread rapidly. The quicker you know what you’re dealing with, the quicker you can get that shit out of your system.

Immediately upon picking her up from the airport, it was clear that absolutely nothing had changed, sans the amount of units she had injected into her face. (Side note, everyone needs to calm the fuck down with this. Unless you can afford Kris Jenner’s surgeon, stop.)

Her focus was the same: on herself. It wasn’t on our friendship, or more specifically, rebuilding the one she took a Little Tikes wiffle ball bat to back in the day.

The vulgarities came fast and fluid. None of them acceptable. From bragging about her “deep-throat” abilities while demonstrating with a popsicle, allegedly in thanks to her “previous eating disorder,” (super unclear), to her skillful “anal rim jobs” (god only knows what that means; most likely being hammered and getting lost somewhere in the vicinity of her geriatric boyfriend’s butthole, by whom she was recently dumped.)

What all that’s saying: “Don’t look at my body. Listen to my words. I’m reckless and above consequence. I’m not a catch, but I’ll make you feel like one.”

What it’s hoping to do: Get anything with/without a pulse into her.

What it did: I don’t know. If her game was anywhere near as strong as she went on and on and ON about, it begs the obvious question: why would someone who resembles everyone’s Pepaw USA dump her?

Guy’s got maybe 10-15 more good years left. If you’re really nailing it in the “weekly anal rim job” department like you mercilessly ensured everyone heard you were, it’s hard to imagine he’d show you the door in exchange for cuddling his MyPillow or whatever people in nursing homes use to sleep at night (c-pap machines??) But go off, queen queef.

During the 96 hours she infiltrated my life, nothing that happened was normal. I started to feel like someone was poisoning me.

This is the kind of person whose biggest flex is using their corporate card from the company she works at (which will probably end up on American Greed) to act like a baller while ordering bottomless Southwest sampler platters. The kind of person who wears the same beaded bracelets as nine-year-old girls, that say shit like “Manifest” and “Courage.” How the fuck did she end up in my house.

When you have a virus, simple pleasures, like going out to dinner, are not possible.

After she had turned cross-eyed and was cut off by the server for slamming four martinis at dinner, we were asked to leave. She took pictures of her labia in the backseat of the car on the way home and asked my boyfriend if he wanted to see them.

3. Riding it out.

Viruses thrive on controlling systems. These types of people don’t shut the fuck up.

After getting kicked out of the restaurant the night before (who does that happen to?), I needed a break. I tried to watch the new White Lotus and failed miserably, as she couldn’t go more than thirty seconds without interrupting, slurring words unintelligibly, vying for attention.

They also like to give orders. In my case, sometimes that meant telling me how to do her laundry (guys—her pajamas cost $100, and are a “silk-blend” that are “machine-safe, and do well with a steamer.”)

Other times, it meant telling me that she needed the stickers, ranging from 1997 to 2024, plastered and puckering at their corners, removed from the windshield of her dented 93 Audi.

But it mostly meant pretending that it was entirely understood and acceptable that if I wasn’t doing any of the above chores—OR helping her unpack at her 1980’s time warp apartment—OR helping her learn the walking route to her office, hand-holding that asshole her way through her big-girl move, that she would be busy prioritizing her time with my boyfriend.

Watching her lay her groundwork with the tact of a Special Olympics hurdler was as depressing as it was exhausting. They fail to see that we get it.

After depleting the city’s alcohol supply, she poured herself half a bottle of bourbon, hopped onto my couch, and shit all over monogamy.

Not because Old Man River just dumped her, or because she was having 0.000 success on her dating apps. But it was a predictable “power move” by a deeply insecure person.

By positioning herself as someone who “doesn’t need, want, or believe in monogamy,” she felt that she had announced her sexual desirability as a “no-strings”, emotionally detached, independent force.

Of course, she didn’t marry her first husband because she didn’t “need, want, or believe in monogamy” the same way that she didn’t get into a yeears-long relationship with gramps. This is called propaganda.

People raised by farm animals are going to assess everything you have and decide that they want it for themselves. Not because any of it registers with them, or has value or meaning. Not because they respect what it took for you to get it. But because their only sense of self-worth lies within their ability to walk away with whatever the fuck it is they’ve decided is the trophy.

She announced that she “gets real uppity” when she’s told she “can’t have something.”

What that’s saying: “I get my way by acting entitled and unattainable; if I do it long enough, you’ll chase what disgusts you just to feel like you can catch it.”

What it’s hoping to do: “If I can convince one person with poor impulse control that I’m forbidden fruit versus expired lunch meat, I win.”

What it did: I don’t know. I never bought into it. I guess watching a woman come stomping down my hallway in designer boots that, and I quote, “My Dad bought me, because I’m the baby and his favorite!” left me less than inspired to give a fuck about getting on her list of shit she’s gotta get her way with before she gets “uppity.”

I don’t have designer boots from my Dad because “I’m his favorite.” I have a lifetime of counseling receipts because I’m not. More importantly, at this age, I don’t want a Dad who buys me anything. I just want more time with him. I’ll take broke, with my pride intact, for $500, Alex.

Viruses feel redundant. They drain you of your will to live and electrolytes while leaving you nauseous—questioning every decision that led to this.

They repeat the same joke, ad nauseam. Her’s was that everything was “a targeted ad.” Her vitamins, toothpaste. Targeted ads. Some sort of condom that she couldn’t stop talking about, and asked my boyfriend to buy her—a targeted ad. A bunch of shit that no one cared about and never heard the end of. Targeted ads.

4. Viruses don’t detach themselves.

She got in on a Friday, and her shit was delivered on Monday. Instead of getting the fuck out of my house like a normal person, she tap danced around it.

Normal people identify key markers, such as movers dropping off their shit, to make their appropriate exit. Viruses don’t. This is called parasitic replication.

By Tuesday morning, I fired myself from being her hostess/maid/laundromat/assistant/doormat/audience/babysitter, and instead of going with her for the second day in a row to help her figure out how to be a big girl, I stayed home to disconnect from her chaos.

After she spent a few hours unboxing her crap, she texted me that she’d be “coming home tonight” (see: “home,” aka my house) because “this is a process.”

As U-Haul’s most loyal and traumatized customer in the last six years, I’ve never been privy to a secondary residence amidst “the process.”

Despite her exhaustion and the fact that she would be “returning home” (just fucking kill me) that evening, she found the energy to connect with my boyfriend and take him to dinner. I also later found out that she had him up to her apartment that day, not from her.

I wondered what kind of woman does any of that shit with her friend’s boyfriend, a guy she met 96 hours ago.

Then I remembered, she’s a virus—not a woman. A desperate virus that feeds on male attention. That’s not strength or liberation, the things she pulls over time to convince everyone she embodies—that’s a walking trash bag.

5. Vaccinate.

I called bullshit.

“Calling bullshit”, see: having boundaries, is what dirtbags like her refer to as “overreacting.” These assholes would prefer you let them bulldoze over you without repercussion.

She drove drunk, stormed into my house, packed up her Spanx, freshly-pressed jammies, and a clearance rack worth of TJ Maxx facial creams. I heard the holy exodus of Our Lady of Attention Deficit and Daddy Issues from my room, where I was reading, like a fucking adult.

When I went to close the garage, she was standing in the dark, whispering to my boyfriend.

She peeled out and blocked me. From then on, she continued to call, text, and meet my boyfriend for dinners and drinks.

As someone who spent the previous two years lying and cheating on me, I didn’t have expectations for my boyfriend. It was amusing to hear him orchestrate explanations. He confessed he “never wanted to be associated with her.” That she had the physical composition of “SpongeBob SquarePants.”

Viruses don’t evolve; they replicate dysfunction. They live and die in the same place where they’re born. How sad.

Strength isn’t swallowing their bullshit—it’s knowing when to spit the poison out.

Your new playlist:

Writing is a humbling process. I shit-canned my original 2,400-word post because I felt it overused the word “leadership.”

I then went down a five-hour shame spiral, measured in Uber Eats deliveries, intervals of lying in the fetal position on the living room floor, and trying on fruit.

Writing a piece on leadership (even when it knocks Bill Gates, WHICHITDID) is something I expect from a twenty-two-year-old junior staffer at TechCrunch, whose dream is to write puff pieces people share on LinkedIn—not getting banned from the platform itself (holla!)

When I started this, I promised myself two things: 1) never let the fortune or fame from your sixteen followers go to your head, and 2) if anyone asks you to take your top off, get the money first.

OK—I didn’t say that, but Annette Atkins did:

In all seriousness, I promised myself only to write shit I know.

Which is why I refuse to waste time discussing what makes someone a good leader. Especially when you can cut to the chase by asking yourself the following questions:

Would you rather believe this asshole:

Or someone trying to buy a three-flat in Queens with one share of Domino's Pizza:

Hits gavel—case closed.

Corporate America is run by sociopaths. If you’re not making HR nervous, you’re not moving the needle. Let’s go.

1. Inventing dumb shit can be a career

It’s hard to know what you want to be when you are in the throes of school, feeling the walls of debt and despair closing in.

You don’t have to get a BS, BA, or MD to be successful. Take it from Chad and Tad Shep and Ian Murray:

Who they are: two brothers, straight killing it in the collegiate rape-wear industry, who founded Vineyard Vines. Aka, the morons responsible for the coral shorts/pastel button down combo.

Their contribution to society: screenprinting a cartoon whale on pastel-colored clothing for adults.

Where you can find them: on the cover of Greenwich Lifestyle magazine!! A fee-based advertorial masquerading as an editorial, clogging up mailboxes across the country, where businesses pay to be featured, interviewed, or “ranked” as the best whatever. Way to go, Murray brothers. You guys rock!!!!!!!

Whether you want to get into frat fashion ($1B), kitchen sponges ($300MM), or decorative talking fish ($100MM, the options are endless. USA! USA! USA!

2. Stay true to your brand

As Big Pussy learned, nobody likes a chameleon.

As you embark on your career, a lot of people will tell you not to “burn bridges.”

My two cents is to take note of 50’s; always go with your gut. If your gut tells you to buy a tank of gasoline and a carton of matches to scorched earth someone, you'd best get to Tractor Supply and do it.

For years, 50’s been telling us what a piece of shit Puffy is.

When everyone was honoring the loser at his BET Lifetime Achievement Award, 50 was the only one enjoying his on-stage tumble.

“Motherf*** BET. The highlight of the whole goddamn show was Puffy busting his ass. F*** ’em. F*** ’em all.” - 50 Cent on Puff Daddy falling into a hole.

No one in the history of EVERYONE feigned idolatry for this bozo the way MJB did.

The problem with that sentence is the word “she” in reference to a female, championing a serially accused sexual predator, violent abuser, human trafficker, and coercive manipulator, at the center of a decades-long pattern of rape, exploitation, intimidation, drugging, physical assault, and psychological control over women and associates—who used his power, money, and fame to maintain a culture of silence, fear, and celebrity worship.

Losing your mind over a man whose legacy includes writing “Come With Me,” from the Godzilla(?!! LOL) Soundtrack, and an MTV show called “Making The Band”, is overkill. Whether he paid your house off or not.

With Diddy’s house of cards collapsing, 50 is live-streaming the demolition. Taking spreads.

Class of 2025, I challenge you to prioritize dignity over diplomacy.

“Never burn bridges” sounds reasonable—until that bridge is a boundary. Then torch that shit.

If you don’t like a motherfucker with a subpar vodka brand—start a new one and tank theirs.

3. Nine-to-fives = out

Dinosaurs have been extinct for 66 million years. Ironically, one is still death-gripping the wheel over at JPM.

If not for my UIC alum network (see: one brilliant person), I would still be living in the dark ages, unaware of this shining beacon of light, whom I have been throwing myself into the trenches of this woman’s everything since. :

A dull chopstick!!!!!!

4. Believe in your art.

Carry yourself with the same confidence as the amateur sketch artist who drew Cynthia Erivo.

Share your shit with conviction. Keep drawing. Keep painting. Keep writing. Keep making things no one asked for.

5. Mountainhead

This movie is a “don’t,” in terms of everything you want to be when you grow up.

Like Sirens, I gave it approximately 17 minutes before deleting it for all eternity.

I don’t need to watch billionaire man-children argue over who invented empathy. That’s what the news is for.

Your new playlist:

1. Sirens

I have received approximately 878 notifications from all of the shit I subscribe to about “the season’s BEST show” being released.

What it is: a series on Netflix.

Target audience: Women who get blackout on boxed rosé and publicly argue with their nieces about vaccines on Facebook.

My thoughts: This show is junk. I only made it 10 minutes into the first episode before quitting, so I’m no expert. I am more of a credible witness.

Anything that starts with Julianne Moore releasing a bird on a cliff while wearing a flowing caftan is a no for me, dawg.

It got worse when I realized that the actress who single-handedly destroyed the Game of Thrones franchise is playing a leading role in this mess.

Buying into the idea that Meghann Fahey is the ugly sister and Milly Alcock (see above) is the bombshell is a step too far.

Putting Rhaenyra Targaryen in a pink Lily Pulitzer dress doesn’t make her hot. It makes her look like a Florida divorcee on her way to a brunch that ends in a DUI.

Don’t insult us, Netflix. Few smokes are hotter than Fahey. Combat boots and dollar store eyeliner do not cancel out bone structure.

2. Jamie Dimon

Since 2022, Dimon has made “return to office” his personal vendetta.

Jamie is convinced the world runs best when everyone is visible, miserable, and microwaving fish at 12:03 p.m.

His position has clogged up my feed with an influx of angry boomer rhetoric for years.

Forget about earnings reports, market volatility, or global banking risks—he has a real crisis on his hands, people!! Banishing WFH, to the death!!

Doesn’t JPM have an HR department? I feel like someone needs to tell him that’s what they do.

In interview after interview he says: “Remote work doesn’t work for young people.” “You can’t lead a company from home.” “If you’re not in the office, are you even contributing?” That’s code for, “If you’re not in the building, are you even on the team? And if you’re not on the team, how can we justify seventeen layers of middle management?”

Demanding in-person attendance from people who spend their day making slide decks for someone two floors up isn’t leadership.

Paying for office space and business travel is like tucking singles into a stripper’s thong. The quickest way to wind up broke and disappointed.

At some point, I hope women are running the show.

3. Mel Robbins

Somewhere around New Year’s, my Instagram account was taken hostage by this asshole.

Watching my feed transition from a steady stream of pandas falling down hills to this woman telling everyone to “Let Them” was frustrating.

While the algorithm identified my ongoing need for therapy, it’s mildly offensive that this is who they volunteer as tribute. Talk about the “Z” team.

As someone who has spent the majority of their adult life in therapy, I can assure you that I’d be better equipped with a carton of cowboy killers than listening to this asshole’s podcast.

Mel Robbins has built an empire influencer-condo complex off of people’s burnout. Her flagship concept, “The 5 Second Rule,” suggests that if you count down from five, you’ll find the courage to do “hard things”, like getting out of bed or ending your relationship with someone who’s into Mel Robbins.

And while it’s catchy in a punish-your-kindergartener-countdown kind of way, it’s not revolutionary. Her knack for rebranding long-established psychological concepts as personal discoveries and monetizing them is unrivaled.

Mel often talks about how her life was a mess: marriage on the rocks, career in freefall, waking up with dread every morning. And instead of therapy, medication (yay!!), or lifestyle adjustments, she counted down from five—and changed her life. She sells that countdown for $29.99 in hardcover.

In her latest book, The Let Them Theory, Mel rebrands detachment as divine wisdom. The concept is simple: if someone wants to ghost you, insult you, or behave like a sentient trainwreck—let them. That’s it. That’s the guidance.

For $24.99, it’s boundary-setting for people who hate confrontation but love passive-aggressive growth.

There's an undeniable MLM energy to Robbins’ brand. She has built a media company, comprised of 143 Studios, that churns out podcasts, courses, and in-person events. Her tone is confident, brisk, and vague enough to apply to everyone and no one at once—classic self-help placebo.

It’s not enough to watch her videos—you need the hoodie. The retreat. The “Let Them” bracelet, presumably to remind yourself to shit-can anyone who asks too many questions about evidence-based mental health support.

Despite zero clinical credentials, her advice often dabbles in emotional regulation, trauma response, and behavioral conditioning. She’s essentially cosplaying a cognitive behavioral therapist with a ring light.

She’s part of a larger cultural shift in which influencers now fill the roles of coach, counselor, and life expert. The problem isn’t just that she isn’t qualified—it’s that her advice is delivered with the confidence of a Harvard-trained psychiatrist, minus the malpractice insurance.

If you find yourself in a spiral and someone tells you to count backward from five, try it. But maybe also count how many certified professionals exist who won’t upsell you a workbook.

If you’re seeking a proper psychologist, ask yourself the following questions:

1. Have they recently and/or ever been on the Today show?

2. Do they sell branded planners?

3. Are they earning $100k per Instagram reel promoting products and services?

4. Can you buy tickets to see them on StubHub?

5. Do they have a Ph.D. in psychology from an accredited institution?

4. And Just Like That

What it is: the Sex and the City reboot on HBO.

Target audience: People who used the “I donated to the Harris-Walz campaign” filter on Facebook but still call their housekeeper ‘the help.’

My thoughts: I never understood this show. My college roommate had the entire series on DVD. I spent one summer watching it and have lived to regret this decision more than whoever greenlit the Cats movie.

The spin-off is an overcorrected, self-congratulatory mess that replaces character development with checkbox representation via a rotating cast of painfully forced characters.

Exhibit A: Che Diaz. A nonbinary cargo-pants wearing stand-up comic from Mexico whose entire personality is built on bad weed jokes and performative wokeness.

Exhibit B: Lisa Todd Wexley. She mainly attends galas, manages her gifted children, and over-enunciates lines like she’s narrating a PBS special. Not a lot going on here in terms of depth. “Black friend with a blowout?” Check.

Exhibit C: Seema. The high-powered Indian-American real estate broker. Smokes a lot. Exists to prove Carrie has diverse friends (exhibits A-C).

5. Dirty Sanchez’s Bachelorette Party

The Amazon guy is getting married soon, and his fiancée has been working overtime to prove it.

Somehow, Bezos has gone from this:

To this:

I’m not going to lie, I can’t get enough of this content. Whenever I open my socials, (see: any time I’m laying in bed with potato chip grease on my face), I’m in nothing short of hopeful anticipation to seeing all the BEAUTY, GLAMOUR, and FASHUN that these bitches have been giving.

Although, historically speaking, any time someone’s smeared true love in our faces by way of a weeklong bridal party in Paris, it has not ended well.

But don’t take my word for it. Just ask Gabrielle Solis Eva Longoria.

Your new playlist:

Not just because of idiots like this:

But most of it’s a dismembered interpretation of what the full body should look like.

I prefer to get my facts from trusted sources, like People magazine and my Memaw’s ninety-nine-year-old friend, Ronelle. (Holla!)

Full disclosure: I’m writing this on ambien, adderall, and sudafed. I’ve been up for 48 hours and am hitting this keyboard like it owes me money (it definitely does, but I’m totally good with healthcare instead).

Let’s go.

1. Timothy, aka Slim-othy

Before my 1:25 am flight home from LA last night (this morning? yesterday?), I did not know this person existed. But thanks to Southwest’s complimentary WiFi, I inhaled the (only available) third season of Abbott Elementary like a watermelon ice vape outside community college.

If I could link the five-minute clip of Slim-othy’s brilliance (S3, E4, “Smoking”) to this article, I would. WTF, HBO Max, did you not read my last post? Hot girls don’t gatekeep.

Who the fuck is this guy, and how do we get him to give this exact presentation in November 2028? We’ll smoke the right like we’re on break from working the piercing gun at Claire’s.

2. The Blue Origin photographer

Whoever photoshopped this picture has already proven their ability to narrate the conversation.

If they can make a group of basic bitches look like Feminist Pioneers instead of the Planned Parenthood torching gals they are (who also got lost on their way to a bachelorette party in Orange County), they’ve got my vote.

3. Kris Jenner’s plastic surgeon

Unlike most politicians, this person understands long-term strategy. They know how to lift a sagging base. This shit is flawless. This is what Don Quixote has been going on and on about.

If they can keep a 68-year-old Mom-ager looking like this, imagine what they could do for the state of the union. Forget about what it took to get here, people!! (Aka one daughter’s pre-planned sex tape, and 7,626 seasons of a show no one watches but personality-less white girls that keep Erewhon in business.) This is politics!!

4. Petey B.

He’s everything Trump isn’t: literate, loyal, and legally married to one person. This man is confident AF. He doesn’t need a series of NFTs or cryptocurrency digital collectibles, like the “Trump Digital Trading Cards,” to feel important. LOL, WTF! (FWIW, please shoot my ear off, if it means I never have to worry about jail or cancer.)

While Donny T was shoving documents down his gold toilet and rage-tweeting from a golf cart, Petey B was rebuilding literal bridges and explaining supply chain logistics like my first-grade teacher taught the alphabet. Everyone walked away understanding the assignment.

2028 called: Are you voting for the guy who ran a country like a failing casino or the one who ran the DOT like a Google campus with an unfathomable number of Tesla charging and baby-changing stations?

I know who I’m voting for.

5. Malala Yousafzai

Malala would make a great president because she’s already survived the Taliban, which, frankly, makes her more qualified than anyone in Congress to handle Congress. Case closed.

She believes in education, equity, and fundamental human rights—three things that immediately disqualify her from several key voting blocs, but we digress. Plus, she’s the only candidate who could deliver a Nobel Peace Prize AND a policy plan in the same sentence without breaking a sweat. WERK.

Your new playlist:

Breaking out like a teenager while combating crows feet feels unfair, but the good lord works in mysterious ways. I can still out-eat most bitches on (or off) Ozempic without repercussion, and I’ve never taken that for granted.

Sometimes (see: all the time) I go to Chick-fil-A just to slam two original sandwiches so I can dunk the wrappers in the trash while chanting, “Fuck you, Big Pharma!” (but also, pleeeeease stop raising the prices of Klonopin and Adderall—asking for friends).

Genetic predispositions aside, sometimes, it’s hard not to take the way someone chews their food or fires you as anything less than personal. Let’s get into it.

1. Netflix’s “Are you still watching?”

Like mesothelioma, if you or anyone you know has been affected by this popping up on your screen mid-binge, disregard it entirely.

Every time this message appears, I picture a graphics designer at Netflix (who spends their free time on Nextdoor absolutely shitting on everyone) proposing its implementation to their manager as “a placeholder” in their “users’ favor.”

You’re twenty years late. This might’ve helped back when plasma TVs were still a thing and watching more than three episodes of The Sopranos in a row meant you could use the screen as a wok to make dinner on. Not now. Times have changed.

2. Getting shit-canned

There’s arguably nothing less personal than work. Ironically, the same world that tells us to build our identity around our jobs expects us to detach the moment we’re told to take our dead succulent and GTFO.

It’s convenient to terrorize people into “hustle” and “grind” culture when it results in them throwing shit out the window, like attending their Grandma’s 89th birthday and “Leaning In” (like this asshole suggests, with more on that in this post) to overproduce for a place and set of people who financially benefit from this.

Getting fired isn’t personal—it’s business, which is to say, it’s usually just bullshit.

Most times, it’s by someone who thinks the title “Director of Strategy” means they know how to load a sawed-off instead of spending most of their day writing emails that start with “per my last message.”

No one is powerful. These are people with IBS and batwings.

Take it from me, sometimes getting sacked is the best thing that can happen to you. Or take it from Doechii; that bitch went on to win a Grammy.

3. Sexual Assault

Whenever I’ve considered writing or speaking about my experience with this, I’ve backed down. Relentlessly. Forget about the years of counseling (at times, two-a-days, like a real fucking athlete).

Anyone who’s been there understands that the difference between speaking and silence is the risk of humiliation. A gladiator in an empty stadium, where no one shows up to watch you die alone.

It’s taken seven years for me to learn that life begins once you realize you’re already dead.

During a much younger time in my life, I was targeted, conditioned, and assaulted—a timeline I share in common with many livestock animals and cruise ship entertainers. Proving that having a pulse doesn’t come with respect, especially when our needs clash with others’ impulses.

I've learned it matters to have people you can say real things to. Connection doesn’t come from having it together; it comes from admitting you don’t.

I care more about anyone going through the psychological circus of sexual assault and less about NDAs (why are these still a thing??).

More central than the story of who hurt me or why (an impossible thing for anyone to know) is learning that we can rebound from the worst side of humanity and come out better and stronger.

Back then, I would’ve been happy just to know that I survived another seven years. But to be this whole, I’m not sure I would’ve ever believed it.

I’m eager for Diddy’s trial, the same as I was for E. Jean Carroll’s, and for Brett Cavenaugh to get his ass handed to him.

Sexual assault isn’t personal. But it will feel personal for years until one day it doesn’t.

The wound isn’t your fault, but the healing is your responsibility. The truest form of justice is to outlast the pain and live a beautiful life.

You will find your humor again, one day at a time, and be back on your bullshit. Having drinks and eating chips.

4. JD Vance’s eyeliner

No one likes to be taken for an idiot. So when you ask an obvious question and are met with dishonesty, it feels like someone calling you a moron to your face.

Insinuating my lack of intelligence is like making jokes about my family: while it’s all probably true (especially anything about my Dad or ACT score), only I can do that.

JD, not everyone wants to make fun of you. Some of us simply want to know what eyeliner you’re using because it clearly has staying power. Hot girls don’t gatekeep.

5. Top Gun and Topgolf

If you’re not a straight white male, most things invented in the last century weren’t made for you.

Top Gun

This movie inspired a new level of untapped male toxicity. But don’t take my word for it; take my ex-father-in-law’s.

Though he spent the previous decade and a ton of money buying a ranch and branding everything on it with an iron while trying to be Kevin Costner from Dances with Wolves, all that shit was thrown in the dumpster after he saw Top Gun.

The time and energy he spent building a house that resembled John Dunbar’s was unrivaled.

After getting rid of all his horses and cowboy friends, he began acquiring Iceman’s essentials.

This included a motorcycle, pilot's license, and a shitty airplane, so he could regularly pretend he was Tom Cruise while making new friends who also wore aviators and got erections from planes, motorcycles, and calling each other Goose.

One of life’s greatest ironies is that Top Gun is best known for its homoerotic subtext.

Topgolf

Somewhere in the mid-2000s, corporate Christmas holiday parties once held at Lucky Strike were canceled and booked at Topgolf instead.

Topgolf is corporate culture’s answer to bonding over something that feels athletic but requires no actual fitness. Similar contenders include strip mall escape rooms and Dave & Buster’s.

In high school, I excelled at gym because running the mile was easier than math. Which is why I took it personally when our lesbian PE teacher, who went by Coach, said, “Girls, 99% of all business deals happen on the golf course.”

If I could go back, I’d do a lot of things differently, starting by suggesting to Coach that she empower leaders rather than followers.

If you don’t like where business deals are getting done, change the location.

Your new playlist:

There are many holidays I’m open to ruining; Mother’s Day is not one of them.

In the spirit of focusing on who brought us into the world and keeping things light, here are five things to pass around the table less likely to end in telling a third cousin to fuck off.

1. The Met Gala

What it is: A fundraising event held annually for 77 years, benefitting the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC. It traditionally takes place on the first Monday in May each year.

Attendees are hand-selected by Anna Wintour, the editor-in-chief of Vogue and the event’s longtime chair. Depending on how straight you are, you may or may not be aware that Anna Wintour is the person Meryl Streep’s character was based on in The Devil Wears Prada.

Invitations are extremely exclusive—celebrities, fashion designers, artists, and public figures are invited based on their cultural relevance, fashion influence, or connection to the theme. Take note, Aunt Becky, even if a brand buys a table (which can cost tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars), Anna Wintour still approves every guest seated at it. Aka: your money’s no good here!!

Somewhere after COVID and before Trump’s reelection, I stopped paying attention to this shit. But this isn’t about me. This is about providing tidbits to throw around on Sunday over French toast.

Each gala has a theme. 2025 was "Superfine: Tailoring Black Style"—celebrating Black fashion and its influence through the decades. As a white woman, I’ll be honest: I would have been terrified to participate. The theme centers on a cultural identity I don’t belong to and can’t authentically represent, which could easily veer into cultural appropriation, no matter how well-intentioned. It’s a powerful reminder of the historical imbalance of who gets to define or wear culture, and that stepping into another culture’s style has long been a required survival skill for marginalized communities.

Who won? ZENDAYA. Lying in bed this morning after slamming a Cherry Coke Zero, I caught up on Monday’s stream of the 1%’s prom. I audibly gasped when I saw this clip of her leaving The Surrey hotel.

Not because her assistant was carrying her dog, which is also iconic, but because this woman is fucking flawless!

This isn’t a suit. It’s THE SUIT. It’s the suit I wish I were born in and will strive to die in. She made everyone else look like they swung by Party City to pick up their prepackaged outfit in a plastic kit. GAME OVER!!!!!!

My mantra for the foreseeable future (in the voice of none other than JINNAAAAAY, from Forrest Gump): “Dear God, make me Zendaya, so I can fly far, far away from here.”

Runners up: Doechii, Tracey Ellis Ross, and Rihanna.

People whose publicists had to work overtime on Tues: Gayle King (the CBS host/astronaut), Shakira, Lorde, anyone with the last name Kardashian or Jenner, and Sydney Sweeney. Certified examples of what the kids call “failing to understand the assignment.”

Slams the buzzer. NEXT.

2. White Lotus: Thailand

It’s been two months since the finale; spoiler alerts are Turnt Off. If you haven’t watched it by now, that’s a you problem.

This season was disappointing. The writing was lazy. The plot was erratic. And the finale was a mess. I know Mike White popped off about the backlash he’s received in an interview seen here. While I respect a writer’s creative authority, some of us have nothing else to live for, Mike.

Your audience isn’t smart, Mike. You can’t expect us to understand why every journalist in America is burning through Finance Dad’s phone battery without any explanation other than “embezzlement.”

Doesn’t everyone do that now? That’s been normalized. We need more details.

We need to see Finance Dad tell the rest of the family that he almost murdered his son. You can’t go from a near-poisoned-by-protein-shake moment to the whole family heading home on a yacht like it’s business per yooj.

Our brains can’t connect the dots. My family’s been through some shit, but unacknowledged near-homicides without skipping a beat—who do you take us for, the Gotti’s?

Everyone was excited to see Belinda back until she turned into a piece of shit. Agreeing to accept blood money—and involving your son? Doing Pornchai dirty, the same way Tonya did her? Whatever.

The bottom line is that there’s a zero percent chance that Greg (a bald closeted gay who killed a bitch for money) would draw the line at killing another bitch for money. Especially one who could rat him out. Greg’s not into wiring women $5MM!

He’s into hiring Italian drug lords to collect everything for him and sashaying Past Go, like every other asshole who cheats at plays Monopoly. Like the game, Greg’s not interested in having friends by the time it’s over. It’s scorched earth. If you’re not into deleting contacts and destroying lives, don’t pull that shit out of the box.

The whole season felt like an exercise in senseless shock value. “Let’s have the younger brother jerk off the older brother!” Yawn. “Let’s have an aging actress who cheats on her husband with the cabana boy!” Who cares.

Writers are losing touch with reality, and by reality, I mean how desensitized we are out here in the trenches. We’ve already dealt with these things. Twice.

Things I appreciated:

1. This scene: Carrie Coons’ speech to her shitty friends

2. Walton Goggins giving a weekly masterclass in sexual confidence for the straights.

Maybe the next one will be better. We can only hope it returns to Italy-level brilliance. I think I just really miss Harper.