I Get You, Miley Cyrus.

Totally ignoring the VMA performance, since it included Robin Thicke (read about my hatred here ), I get Miley Cyrus. 

I mean, no one's saying "Oh look Robin Thicke looked like a less attractive version of Beetlejuice and rubbed his clothed wiener on a barely legal girl".  They're all calling out the newly minted woman who's finding out who she is and where her career is really going.

Being 20 is terrifying.  You're a grown up with grown up responsibilities and freedom.  Imagine having that with all of the world watching you and a set of parents who are a spectacle themselves.  Really. 

I mean, there are people who have handled her situation with more class, but there are people who don't have that kind of notoriety who have handled it with much less. 

Mostly I really want to write this post, because her song "Wrecking Ball" made me cry today.  I feel you, Miley.  I could totally hug you, because you clearly need it.

Peace the Fuck Out, Thought Catalog

I used to be a regular reader of Thought Catalog.  As collection of essays and musing from twentysomethings, it was a way to feel connected with others in my generation.  I used to sit up in my bed, lights off well into the night to laugh and sometimes cry about the truths I'd felt right in front of me.

That was until I found a Pro-Ana piece titled I Love My Eating Disorder.  With no preface that the site does not condone the behavior, it rambles on about how men love "skinny women" and the only way to be adored is to be "skinny".  "As a woman, if you want to have a great job and a great boyfriend, you have to be hot."  It's incredibly sad. 

I am absolutely one to promote self-love.  And this piece, is the absolute opposite of that.  I, with my extra 60 pounds and my anxiety,  am trying to practice loving me.  In the immortal words of RuPaul, if you can't love yourself, how the hell you gonna love anyone else?  I'm trying to love my body with its bumps and puckers, my soul with its imperfections, and my heart even when it's broken.  I bought a dress this year.  I haven't worn a dress in seven years.  But I bought it, and I wore it.  And I still wear the shit out of that dress.  Because it makes me feel beautiful.  Because I feel that way, not because I need validation from someone else to do so.

I feel sorry for this girl, and others like her in the Pro-Ana community.  Not pity, but genuine hurt for them.  I know what it's like to hate yourself.  I know what it's like to have body dysmorphia, anxiety that people are look at your for your fat.  I know what it's like to look in the mirror and see your body three times larger than it really is. Knowing that there are others out there like me is comforting.  Knowing that a disturbing number of them are hurting themselves because of this is disheartening.

It makes me sad for society.  Society is ugly: it tells people that in order to be "beautiful" you have to fit into a slim margin and closed standards.  It leaves out a really important rule: Beauty is the in the eye of the beholder.  We all have different tastes and preferences. We are all beautiful to someone.  Sexy, even.

With this point of view and a heavy heart, I say goodbye to Thought Catalog.  And I encourage you to do the same.

Spaghetti-Os and Doritos

I'm sick.

For real.  Nasty sinus infection that I would only wish on my worst enemies.  Being sick makes me realize that I would be a SHITTY cancer patient.  You read those obituaries that swear the loving wife/husband/father/mother/whatever braved a "courageous" battle with Cancer.  Not to steal a joke by a comedian who's name I'm too sick to remember right now, but I'd be the non-courageous Cancer Warrior.   I'm a terrible sick person.  I just want to lay around and make non-descript noises and watch Daytime TV and/or Netflix.

Which brings me to the point of my post.  Spaghetti-Os and Doritos.  And, let's face it, pretty much everything in my life comes back to food.  I have a terrible relationship with it, but that's another post for a slightly less feverish day. 

When I'm sick, I only want Spaghetti-Os and Doritos.  Maybe ginger ale.  "Why," you must be asking, "would you want such a weird and rather juvenile combination?" 

Well... When I was a sick kid, my single-teenaged-father had pretty much no fucking idea what he was doing.  I don't blame him.  I mean, if I had a kid as a soon-to-be 28 year-old, I'd have to lean pretty heavily on the internets.  That didn't exist in 1986.  So, when little Lizzy was home sick, she was served Spaghetti-Os and Doritos.   It's nostalgia.  Yeah, let's call it that. 

So, now that I'm a sick grown-up, I still want the same thing.  It makes me feel comfortable.  It puts me back in the days when being sick meant that Bob Barker was my temporary babysitter.  That the saga of the Deveraux and Brady clans on Days of Our Live, even for just one day, was so enthralling.  Even though I had no idea what they were talking about.  These days, if I'm sick, I usually have to suck it up and be an adult. 


But being an adult just means that I can eat Spaghetti-Os and Doritos whenever I damn well feel like it.

FUCK YOU, ROBIN THICKE

RANT ALERT.

Robin Thicke can suck my enormous cock. 

It's Been a Long Time, My Dears

I started to write a blog post, but then realized it was super depressing.  I started this blog to entertain you guys, not bring you down with what's become my ridiculously depressing life.  So, since I don't want to be responsible for a rash of suicides, I deleted it.

Instead, I wanted to thank all of you for reading my blog.  I deeply apologize that I haven't been present to give you the giggles for some time.  I'm dealing with shit.  I promise, though, that I will have all the goofiness back soon. 

I can't believe that I have almost 2200 blog views as of right meow.  I'm incredibly grateful that each of you take even more time out of your own lives to read my silly musings. 

So, here is video that I hope you like.  And here's to many more (funny) blog posts! And remember that I LOVE comments!!

Income Restricted Properties Can Suck My Dick

The title says it all. 

There are FAR too many apartments who "participate in an affordable housing program" which restricts the income of the residents. 

Put on Your Lady Pants

I've had a rough year.