Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Tuesday, November 20, 2012


So y'all already know I'm from Croatia but I grew up in America and I'm THANKFUL for that because in America I got to go to American schools where they taught me about America and also I got to see the Backstreet Boys in concert, like, twice, before turning twelve. I haven't been in the US for the past FOUR Thanksgivings and will miss this one as well but that won't stop me from telling y'all Americans how to dress up for yours! So here's What To Wear To Thanksgiving Dinner Depending On Where You Spend It:



Wear your ugliest, oldest shit, like Gap flares and fleece. Not just because you'll be getting fed to death and therefore spilling animal grease all over yourself but because you wanna prove to Mommy and Daddy that the economy sucks and that you need a New Expensive Professional Wardrobe a.s.a.p if they have any hope of you finding a job that will allow you to at least afford your own used car and give them back that damned Honda once and for all, Dad's getting tired of riding the bus to work, you selfish jerk! 

Guuurlll he's totes gonna put a ring on it! Before he does that, though, you've gotta sit through the hellfire that is Thanxgiving with your future In Laws. Wear something hella hot, like an American Apparel mini-dress, so his Dad will wanna bone you (and therefore wanna keep you "In The Family"). Underneath wear something tight, like an Agent Provocateur corset, so his Mom respects your ability to handle pain and discomfort for the sake of others, as we all know that's the #1 prerequisite to becoming a wife. Also if you're wearing something tight you're less likely to eat, which is good because boyfriend's crazy sister probably poisoned your food (she's in love with him and totally jealous of you, duh). Your boyfriend's family is hella weird, way to pick your future, you psycho! 

Cool, another night spent trying to make that puta feel better about her crappy life when she never asks you how YOU are but I guess that's ok because at least your life is a little better than hers or at least you have the ability to tell yourself that it is and THAT'S THE MOST IMPORTANT THING RIGHT? Wear sweatpants for comfort and a wig so when y'all get into a fight and she grabs your 'hair' she falls down. Dumb bitch. 

Keep it simple, nothing more than a faux silk H&M robe. You'll end up in your bathtub crying to "Nothing Compares To You" by the end of dinner anyway but before that you'll get too drunk to take off whatever complicated crap you wanted to put on to try to draw your Ex-Boyfriend's attention to your butt and away from your cockroach problem. 

Wear whatever you want, nobody cares about you. 

Wear something durable and travel-friendly, like a Banana Republic trench. If you've gotten to a point in your life where neither your friends, family or loved ones are hosting Thanksgiving Dinner at home, that probably means you're at a point in your life where neither your friends, family or loved ones can afford a table big enough to sit more than two people and one cat and therefore you've got to skip town a.s.a.p.

You know that discounted-last-season-outlet Versace dress you bought? The one that's one size too small? The one that barely zips up so you hang it on your bedroom door in hopes that seeing it every morning will motivate you to hate yourself eat well and work out? The one you haven't worn out yet? The one you've been saving for a Special Occasion? This is that occasion. Because the types of men who eat out alone on Thanksgiving Night are those either busy enough to avoid their families, hot enough to be single or clever enough to get out of hanging out with their wives on A Holiday-and therefore sleazy enough to go home with somebody like you.

Happy Thanxgiving!


Life is strange and full of surprises. For example, today I pooped three times and didn't eat anything! Another surprise is that Early Millennium Fashun has come back into style-especially the "Party Monster" aesthetic. Some of us have already seen this via Famous Tumblr Putas but now all of us are seeing it in Strapper (Stripper + Rapper = Strapper (you're welcome)) Brooke Candy. It's obvious you wanna be like her, but it isn't so obvious where you can buy her clothes! Well, if you live in Milan, now you'll know. 

Friday, November 16, 2012


Meow! I'm Parking Lot Cat, nice to meet you! That's me, in a cage: 

Why was I in a cage? Because a Croatian Woman put me there. Why? Cuz she was saving me! You see, I've been living in the parking lot by her work, NCCU. How did I get there? It's a long story. And by "long story" I mean a sad story and by "sad story" I mean I'm not gonna get into it because I'll cry and I don't feel like re-doing my makeup. Anyway, I've become famous as the "Parking Lot Cat" and I know this, because that's what all the students called me, the ones who would feed me scraps from their unhealthy cafeteria lunches. I guess I owned that parking lot and living there made me cool. But being cool doesn't pay the bills and it definitely doesn't get you free tuna. Anyway, let's not dwell on the past. Look, here's me with my new roommate, she keeps kissing on me and I keep being like, "why you so obsessed with me?" 

I know why she's obsessed with me, though, it's cuz I'm hella cute. Speaking of cute, here's me snuggled up under some covers, being luxurious like the Parking Lot Queen that I am. Only now I'm a Bed Queen. A House Queen. I own all of you.

Yeah, I'm a homeowner now! Because after that Croatian Lady tempted me with food and got me into that cage and drove me around in her car and brought me to her home she let me out and told me I can live there now, if I want to, and I said "yes." So now I'm living in Chapel Hill instead of Durham, sleeping on fluffy pillows instead of concrete and bingeing on Gourmet Cat Food from Whole Foods instead of garbage. And though I'll kind of miss that parking lot and really miss those kids who fed me high-fructose corn syrup, I most definitely will not miss being cold and lonely and hungry and dirty and cold (and so dirty!). I'm glad I stuck around there for as long as I did, though, and didn't give up. You should never give up. Because your life can change any second. So just keep going and going and checking those trashcans and licking your butt and meowing your heart out even when you feel you can't go on, because tomorrow just may be the day that Croatian Woman saves you.

So keep your tail up! That's all for meow. 

Thursday, November 15, 2012


Hey! What's up? No. No, I can't. Sorry. I'm busy. I'm working! I'm writing! I'm starting to. No you can't. I'm doing a mask. Mayonnaise! In my hair! Yeah. Oh, just reading my horoscope. The usual. Well, it says I'm really emotional this week, which is actually so true. Mercury left my sign today. It's the planet of communication. No, but it might just be because I'm supposed to get my period. No, I'm skipping it again. Yeah, like five months! No, it's totes healthy. I read it online. No you won't. I won't let you. I can't wash my hair for another, like, hour. No, but then I have to put egg in it. For split ends! Color damage. I will not. I will not shave. I will not shave my head again. You know the last time I didn't get laid for like a year. Oh, ha, ha. I go on dates sometimes. I don't have to tell you everything. Who? The one with the thing? No, he never called me. I think he has a girlfriend! I know! So hot. Yeah. Really good.Yeah. Sad. Well, what else could it be? Huh? I don't know! When were you born? Shut up, I usually don't read this shit. I need guidance! It's like, even atheists believe in God before they die. My grandmother told me. No, she's alive. Huh? It feeds my roots. Essential oils. I read it online. It's replenishing. Moisture. The smell? It makes me hungry, actually. I can't. I already did. I binged, basically. Huh? Cauliflower. Yeah, the whole head. No but I read online a whole head of cauliflower only has 200 calories. Yeah! Yeah, and it has tons of fiber, so I'll poop. Oh, much better. Oh, I'm almost regular! Like, almost once a day now. I know. So lucky. I can't imagine how I was living before. Uh, wait. Hold on! Ok. Yeah. Yeah I just got mayonnaise on the phone. Look, I have to go. No, I can't! Not even. I have to write. Yeah I'm starting! No, I don't know. Not yet. I'm brainstorming. Well it's hard coming up with, look, it's dripping down my neck. I gotta go. No! I told you. Wait, you're a Taurus, right? Yeah, it says you're sad, too. 

Wednesday, November 14, 2012


Hey! Hey! Hey y'all do y'all like my new banner? Y'all?

Hey, the puta who made it is cool. Her name is Imogen Donato and that's a weird name so she's probably from space where she lives on a beautiful planet made entirely of breakfast foods and warm milk. 


On her home planet, Imogen is Queen and her subjects worship her. Imogen's subjects love her and show their undying devotion to her by building their Queen shining pyramids of maple syrup and butter squares. Imogen is a grateful Queen and she pays her subjects in powdered sugar. She is a righteous ruler, a generous lady and a hit on the dance floor. 

Thanks for the banner, Imogen, you're a good Queen, and a great friend.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012


Back when I was young and living in an innocent time when cell phones were only used as fantastic props in films like MIB and Clueless and The Night At The Roxy, my way of making guys talk to me was asking them for The Time. This way I could not only start a conversation but see immediately what kind of money they're blowing on their wrists, #ifyouknowwhatimean. It was an easy way to flirt with dudes before I learned to just ask them for cigarettes or whatever. However, now I don't smoke anymore and now I don't know how to pick up guys because now everybody who is anybody or actually just anyone who's alive has a cell phone and therefore if you ask somebody what time it is they think you're poor, but not even poor, because even poor people have the new iPhone. So, they just think you're a psycho and nobody really likes psychos but at least because watches are so useless now, that's what makes them #chic #to #death.

Monday, November 12, 2012


So maybe y'all have noticed that I'm kind of into the idea of being on television and by "into the idea" I mean obsessed with it and by "obsessed with it" I mean it keeps me up at night and makes me constipated.

I really want to be on television and even though I've had My Fifteen Minutes (literally) on Rai 2 and even though that night I stalked befriended a liar "TV Agent"

and even though that weekend I went to a comedy show with him and acted really charming and made funny jokes the whole time and impressed his friends and wore tons of makeup and told him he totally has to get me a job or else I'll go to his house and tell his wife that he really does think she looks fat in those pants and that I know this because he TOLD ME SO, I am still Not Yet On Television As A Famous Person On Television Who Works On Television. And like, I'm almost 25 years old y'all and if I wanna have my own TV Show before my first boob lift I've got to start hustling. So here's my plan for 2013:



Nine months from now I wanna find myself in a Burger King restroom, realizing that, no, it wasn't Just Something I Ate that has been making me bloated and moody and that in fact it was not a good idea to believe that dude who said that condoms work just as well while in the box if you just think about them working hard enough and when that happens I'll call the ambulance and they will call a camera crew and I'll be all, "so there I was pooping and reading US Weekly and everything was OK and all of a sudden my poop was screaming at me and I was like, sorry it's not my fault they told me to get the spicy sauce, and then I looked down and there was a baby and it looks just like Justin Bieber which is annoying, because he owes me money." And then I'll wink.


The Public loooves brides and I could looove yelling at someone else's parents and buying unflattering dresses for my enemies bridesmaids and cheating on my future husband with his sister or whatevz.


But before I can release a sex tape I need to have a sex tape leaked and before I can leak a sex tape I need to record one but that's harder than it sounds considering my sex life currently consists of me going to the gym and doing the Stair Master until my thighs are sore enough to trick myself into thinking that someone actually touches them sometimes. 

3) DIE


PS- Those of y'all who aren't my FB Friends and/or Twitter Followers and/or "Fans" (Mom and Dad) and therefore don't get like every single update of every single second of my life (poor you) here's a ~friendly reminder~ to read my Vice Columns and if you can't read them via not speaking pizza then at least look at the pictures and tell yourself the writing is probably really good or whatevz.

This time I wrote about boning and punk rock. 

Monday, November 5, 2012


Dear Charles Bukowski,
How are you?
don't answer that,
I don't care.

Dear Charles Bukowski,
I used to like you.
I really liked you.
I was obsessed,
kind of.
before reading your books.

I mean
I read your books,
but I only read some.
and those were good!
they were ~funny~
and I thought YOu were funny, too.
and I wanted to be like you, 
kind of.
without the scars on my face.

Dear Charles,
(can I call you Charles?)

now I've read 
your other books,

what the fuck?

What. The. Actual. 

is wrong with you?


I used to think
that we would be friends.
I thought
you'd be impressed
by how much whiskey 
I can drink.
I used to think that
if we met
you'd listen to my jokes 
and laugh 
or something.

But then, Charles,
I read "Women" 
and I read "a .45 to Pay The Rent"
and read "Too Sensitive"
and I know I shouldn't have, but
I also read "Rape! Rape!" 

And then I threw that book across my bedroom.

you talk about women
as if we are literal
and rape 
as if it's like, 
as harmless as
getting a slice of pizza.
(it isn't).

Charles Bukowski!
you hate me! 
for my vagina!
and that's sad.
because I liked you. 
(a lot).
even though you have a dick.
but if you met me 
you wouldn't waste your time 
unless you'd think I'd have nice legs 
that I could "cross high" for you.
and even then you'd just want to yell at me 
or rape me 
or something.

Dear Charles Bukowski,
I hate you.
(but I hate you For A Reason).
and I hope you are sad.
I mean, you're dead, 
so I guess you are.

you are not a genius.
Geniuses have the ability to,
you know, 

Dear Charles Bukowski,
if I ever did meet you,
I'd slap your
stupid face.
and not in a sexy way.

Dear Charles Bukowski,