Tiers of delicate bitsy-dot chiffon tulle flutter like wispy cotton-candy nothingness next to Ivanka in an ugly fucking dress

Resting. Mitch. Face.

I just can’t even.

subornation of perjury (n):

the crime of persuading a person to commit perjury, defined as the swearing of a false oath to tell the truth in a legal proceeding, whether spoken or written. See illustration.

S ... C ... R ...

You don’t really realize how loudly the cat scrapes her poop around in her litter box until you’re working quietly from home and suddenly SCRAPE SCRAPE THAT’S ALL SCRAPE YOU SCRAPE SCRAPE CAN HEAR SCRAPE SCRAPE SCRAPE.

SCRAPE.

The litter box is hidden out of sight through that door over my right shoulder. That ugly quilt hanging on the wall is somehow on-purpose on display in our family room.

SCRAPE.

Goodbye, dreary-pinky-orangey-beigey-ennuiy-mousy-blah-ugly-ass Formica kitchen counters!

I’m at work playing on my blog right now to pay for having you hauled away to your dreary-pinky-orangey-beigey-ennuiy-mousy-blah-ugly-ass Grave of Despair and Eternal-Cliché Irrelevance and be replaced with mega-awesome new countertops that you could never be. So good riddance. Go bore and appall some other kitchen to death.

When your ugly-dreary-pinky-orangey-mousy-blah Formica countertops are being ripped out and replaced in three days

and you’ve spent your evening excitedly tearing into Phase One: Taking everything out of the cabinets to make room for all the dust.

I'm a professional fashion writer. Do not try this at home.

Tiers of polka-dot chiffon tulle flutter like wispy cotton-candy nothingness next to Ivanka in an ugly fucking dress. ‬

Your jealousy is the ugly stepsister

We have a refrigerator at work filled with icy cold pop and an honor-system piggy bank (that’s shaped like an actual pig!) on top for us to pay a quarter every time we take a pop. Naturally, I brought every quarter I could scrounge out of random couch cushions and pay phones to work and stacked them so precariously on my desk that they became a safety hazard and five OSHA violations. So I searched through our storage room at home for a handsome, tasteful demitasse or votive that I could possibly repurpose as a quarter caddy (coffer? cradle? cauldron? kettle? so many alliterative options!) ... and instead I FOUND A WHOLE BAG OF ASSORTED DISNEY PRINCESS PARTY CUPS, the Cinderellaiest of which I—as people do—arranged on my desk with a Diet Coke can and an artful jumble of quarters for this celebratory photo:

Guess which two people in this horror movie just filed for divorce

Everyone deserves a chance to lie

#ThursdayThings

No matter what life throws at me, at least I don't have ugly children.

Fancy new rug

Hideous old wallpaper border.
I-conquered-Normandy-with-the-Vikings commemorative trunk.

It’s the thought that ... oh, I don’t care

Of the many things I catastrophically suck at — remembering names, canceling no-longer-needed insurance policies, winning over Bitch Kitty outside the context of her pathological desperation for cat treats — wrapping presents is the one I care the least about.

To wit (to Mom, actually): I just (poorly) (because I don’t care) wrapped this gift using paper saved from a long-ago gift (because I’m responsible!) only to notice after I was done that the long-ago gift label was now wrapping awkwardly around the edge (because I’m not observant!) (because I don’t care!) of this new gift, so I did what any other not-caring person would do in this situation: I scribbled over the old gift label with a red sharpie and then slapped a new gift label over the part of the old label that was still on the top part of the new gift. Then, since the new label was now in a place that would make no sense to put a bow (and because I don’t care!), I just found a scrap of knotted elastic, stretched it (not even remotely artfully) around the box and rushed back to watching car-crash videos in click-trap perpetuity on YouTube.

But that’s the price my dad pays for having me wrap his presents for him because he’s blind. Symbiotically, because he’s blind he has no way of knowing (or caring!) how ugly it is. (And I don’t care!)

Mom just told me she sent a Christmas invitation in Comic Sans

So this is as far as I’m going with the tree.

#BlackFridayDemands

I shall name them Aryan and Nightmare. Or Butter and Face. Or Donald and Uglier Donald. Or WhatTheHell and AreYouWearing.

In any case, I WANT THIS.