All Your Dreams Are Dead

This might actually be a sign of the apocalypse.

Locusts, boils, and Croc-Ugg crossover boots.

Unacceptable.

Dead Man's Chungs

Maaaaaaaaad weirdo props if you can guess the title quote. I know Tank could.

So anyvay, at first I'm all, who the balls is this British bitch interviewing my imaginary celebrity friends? And then I'm like, no seriously- who are you? and what are you smoking?

Then I'm like, you're kinda awkwardly funny. I think I like you. Can I get some of what you're smoking?

Then I'm like, did you just ask Emile Hirsch what not to microwave?

And finally, I'm like, Dear Alexa: please be my best friend. We would have a stellar time mocking reality TV stars and smoking what you Brits call "fags." Call me! XOXO- Kate.

Love You. Mean It.

Back from vacation. How was it, you ask? Well... it went a little something like this:

Sunshine. Sunburn. Swollen ankle. Rain rain. Monopoly. Sharpie tattoos. Dreadlocks. Hot tub jumping. Sore throat. Fever. Swine flu? Eastbound and Down. Cough drops. Art show. Wine Tour. Downpour. Private party. Underbutt. Hangover.

So now I'm back at work, and the weather is the nicest it's been for the entire week I had off. To show my disdain for my return to the grind, I will be reading My Cardboard Life for the rest of the day. Damn the man. Save the empire.

If You Jump On the Bed You Will Go to Hell

Started reading YU+ME: dream, a surreal lesbian webcomic yesterday because I was bored and too hungover to work. I'm continuing reading it today, because it is AWESOME and the protagonist's conscience speaks in ebonics.

Thanks, Facebook!

Oh those Facebook quizzes. The latest told me that if I were a character on It's Always Sunny in Philedelphia, I'd be Sweet Dee because "[I] make lots of big plans but [I] lack ambition and talent. [I'm] highly sensitive about [my] shortcomings but [I'm] aggressively outspoken and often prone to violence when angered."

Too true. Too true. I didn't need a Facebook quiz to tell me that I am the living, breathing Dee Reynolds, but the synopsis at the end was worth the three minutes I spent stealing from company time. Who needs therapy when there's the internet?

WTF, Mate?

I'm sorry, where was this when I had to wear an ace bandage every day?

And... slit your wrist bracelets? Extra joint rings? Weird. The garden party aid? Brilliant.

Things Were Good When We Were Young

This is now my new desktop background. I may spend the majority of the day with all documents minimized just sighing happily.

Fun fact: when googling Daniel Sunjata, the first thing that popped up was "Daniel Sunjata Girlfriend." Seems like there are other Miss Lonelys out there who think that they've got a shot with celebrities they've never met as long as said celebrity is not dating Mandy Moore.

I will never forgive her for stealing Zach Braff from me.

Kick-Ass Red Lip Stick

Alright, so I heard about Gwenyth Paltrow's GOOP newsletter a while back (yeah, I rolled my eyes too) but never actually took the time to check it out. The excerpt I read via another source included this quote: "If your bowel movements get sluggish, you can accelerate things by drinking half a cup of castor oil or using a mild herbal laxative. Bowel elimination is paramount for correct detoxification." Sluggish bowel movements? Ugh. Thanks, Gwyneth, I've read enough.

When the whole GOOP subject popped up again recently, I decided I had to check it out and read good ole Gwyn's words-o-wisdom for myself. I prepared to snicker and scoff at her high brow, new age-y self-righteousness and be utterly disgusted by her suggestions. The homepage didn't help its case any by reading, "GOOP: Nourish the Inner Aspect." Oh I'll nourish it, G. You bet I will.

So I continued perusing, and what I found was, well, it was... not terrible. Kinda interesting, actually. The detox articles intrigued me, minus the whole castor oil for bowel elimination thing. In another newsletter, she lists her favorite restaurants and hotels in New York. In another, she lists the favorite movies of several famous directors. Her short 75 or so words of narration at the beginning of each section didn't even annoy me, even if it did always end with an electronic signature reading "Gwyneth" in what looks like Mistral in italic. It wasn't snarky. It wasn't bubbly. In fact, it was rather mellow and calm. I could almost hear Ms. Paltrow saying it to me in her kinda spacey, kinda profound voice.

I think I liked it. And at first I was really ashamed with myself for liking it, but then I stopped and wondered why. Gwyneth Paltrow has always come off as pretty smart and well spoken. She didn't ever flash her cooter to the paparazzi or do a reality series. She's won academy awards. Why wouldn't she have insightful opinions? Then I remembered why I had assumed it would be complete and utter garbage from the get go: she named her child Apple. Apple. It's not even a nice sounding word. It doesn't mean anything especially interesting. Actually, I've just repeated it so many times in my head that it doesn't mean anything at all.

Apple is not a name, Gwyneth, it's a type of pie. But of course, she wouldn't know from pie; she's too busy with her liquid detox diets and make ya shit pills. All in all, I think I'll call this one a draw.

The Future's Not Ours to See

My brand new Betsy Johnson glasses.

If I could make out with eyewear, I'd want seven minutes in a closet with these babies.

Your Aura is Purple

Whoa, man. That's really out there.

That's What She Said

Because I'm nice (and self absorbed) I'm providing ya'll with a Kate-to-English Dictionary for those of you who can't figure out what the fuck I'm talking about.

FML: Fuck My Life. Not my coinage, of course, but so effective in so many situations.

GBF: Gay Best Friend. The counterpart to the Fag Hag.

Ginger: A person of the redheaded persuasion. Although they have no souls, I find myself secretly attracted to them.

HS BF: High School Boyfriend.

QB: Quasi-Boyfriend. Fuck Buddy. Friend with Benefits. Slampiece.

SML: StepMom Lady.

Tater: A female of the chunky persuasion. Usually one with a pretty face, who just needs to lose a few. Dudes usually put them in the friend zone and torture the shit of them.

The cast of characters:

Bubba: My delightfully witty and energetic GBF. He's cute as a button.

Charlemagne: My too smart for his own good younger brother. We frequently have enlightening conversations during the work day about such subjects as taters, gingers, and n00bs who can't move gud.

Lucifer: My mother. Also referred to as "Rosette."

Katelyn Durden: My best friend and soulmate who ran away to join the circus.

Paws: My father. He is an animal behavior specialist.

PB: My dangerbike riding, story telling friend. He's also a master at crushing my self esteem.

Roommate: Some chick that I live with. Her name is Kate too.

SML: My step-mother. She's a cheating whore.

Tank: My littlest brother. Not sure if I've shared any of the gems from his life yet, but I will. He's one in a million, and when he grows up, he wants to be a bunny.

Why Couldn't the Pirate Get Into the Movie?

Because it was rated ARRR.


Totally coveting these Mui Mui baroque wedges. They look like pirate ships, and that is awesome.

Kittens for Obama

I fucking love these.

And sadly, pretty much everything else on this site, because as it turns out, I am secretly still a 14 year old emo girl. Get me to the mall.

In other news, I'm due to get a new phone, yet am so sad to part with my Krazr. That bitch has withstood many a drunken tumble, spilled beer, and tobacco filled purse. You've got large shoes to fill, new phone.

Also, why are there consistently single sneakers in the middle of the road? Always sneakers, and always just one. Where are these shoes coming from? How is it that people are losing their footwear midtraffic? I don't understand these things.

And finally, I'm looking for a birthday card that says "Sorry I didn't get you a better present, dad. I spent all my money on cigarettes and emergency contraceptive." If you happen upon one, let me know.