Pride & Prejudice & Standard Text Messaging Rates

This is the first in a series of posts combining classic literature with modern day technological habits and advancements.


Pride & Prejudice

``I dare say you will find him very agreeable.''

``Heaven forbid! -- That would be the greatest misfortune of all! -- To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! -- Do not wish me such an evil.''

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, quickly Elizabeth slipped her cellular into the side-seamed pocket, and Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, whose countenance she had studied for hours late into the night on his Facebook profile page, and reading in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word,  only the faint buzz-buzzz-buzzz of her phone vibrating against her hip made a muffled disturbance; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. Perhaps he was more talkative on online chatrooms? Elizabeth tended to stray from those online congregations, but she was unable to deny that many evenings in her youth were spent conversing with lonely older men from Iowa, binded by their mutual fascination of Manga and similarly fashioned late 19th century Japanese cartoons. He replied, and was again silent. Though she was enjoying the routine, it occurred to her that the consistent caller on her phone was perhaps the cute doorman she made slutty eyes at the week before, and the buzzing of her phone only heightened that fluttering remembrance. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:

``It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. -- I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.''

X-TREME COURT

Today, a bunch of old nerds are making a big decision on what shouldn't be a big decision.

In doing a little bit of research* I came across the above picture. It looks like a fourth grade class photo. All they are missing is the little letter board that the person in front holds and gets to feel like a king for the day. But upon closer inspection, there is something else sort of funny going on and that is I'm about 97% sure both Anthony Kennedy and Ruth Bader Ginsburg are dead in this photo. That or they were interrupted half way through an episode of Bad Girls Club and totally ticked off.**

Continuing under the assumption that they are indeed taxidermied puppets of their former selves, I'm going to go ahead and blame Roberts (front row, center.) You can tell from his smug grin that he has successfully eliminated one definite and one possible left leaning vote through his creepy maniacal taxidermy hobby (it came in handy, ma!) Also, Scalia (front row, second from left) knows he is next despite being politically aligned. Look at the horror on his face.*** (Fun Fact: Roberts is more passionate about decorating his walls with the mounted trophy heads of others than SCOTUS brotherhood.)

So, if Roberts has committed unprecedented manslaughter of three Justices, that, by law, should eliminate him, leaving Thomas (jury is still out if he is in fact alive), Kagan, Alito, Breyer, and Sotomayor.

With this standing, Prop 8 should be overturned and Sonya Sotomayor will have more reason to smile like the beauty queen that she is.


*searched the hashtag #scotus
** Other possibilities include: reading through Amanda Bynes' twitter, reading through the arguments for Prop 8...
*** could be farting?

Tryna?

I am not the wisest owl on the owl farm, but one thing I've come to realize about being a social twenty-something (Thought Catalog, hire me! Please!)* is that the difference between leaving a party at midnight and staying until 4 is if you're 'tryna.'

tryna [trahy-nuh]verb- like, you wanna, you gonna

God bless the US of Tryna because it makes us all do very silly things like stay up until 4 in the morning watching a boy play video games (I have since realized this might be an indication he is NOT tryna) or casually mention you play a musical instrument that you do not even own/are able to pronounce. Sometimes I believe that the world is simply being held together by the sheer energy of people tryna at any given time.

Not tryna.

Not tryna.

On the train the other day I heard a girl pretend to not know what French Toast was and then the dude pretended to believe that this girl he was romantically interested in truly did not know what French Toast was. He then proceeded to explain what French Toast was and she giggled and giggled and I'm sure they went home and put their mouths on each other and I sat there with my jaw on the floor thinking, vhat. ze. fug. (jk I was like, OH! THAAAAT'S what French toast is!)

Of course there is nothing wrong with tryna, but perhaps we have all taken it a little too far, to the point we are sacrificing what is actually unique, interesting, and charming about us. Sometimes all we wear are giant tags of MADE IN TRYNA, and we can afford to buy local.** I'm sure we have instruments we can actually play. I'm sure there is more to talk about on a 7 minute train ride than how cute your gluten allergy is. And for goodness sake, the other person is also probably tryna so go watch Netflix and fall asleep together at 11:00 pm because that is truly the happiest you can ever be,

*I imagine Thought Catalog paying people in those free Itunes samples from Starbucks. 

**That is by far the worst pun/metaphor/sentence  I have ever written. Feel free to trip me next time you see me...

W.G.L.B.

Scenario: You're at the club.
Scenario: The music is BUMPING!
Scenario: You're a white girl. Okay, jk I'm not going to racially profile, but in my humble experience, after years of being a white girl, we tend to be the most guilty.

Okay, so you've had a few vodka sodas in you or whatever the fuck it is you need to just BREAK LOOSE and LIVE.IT.UP on that dance floor, girl. It is the freaking weekend and in the name of R.Kelly may he REST IN PEACE (loljk still alive) you are just tryna have you some fun (bounce bounce bounce.)

You graciously slurp up the rest of your drink, side eye and nod toward your best girl friends, and BOOM all of you are on the dance floor ready to lure in future ex boyfriends. And you look phenom, B-T-DUBS.

• Your butt: Toned to perfection thanks to all those pilates DVDs.

• Your hair: Perfect volume, perfect length, ready to just twirl around as you bust crazy moves all night.

• Your make up:Belongs in the FUCKING Louvre.

• Your confidence: Literally through the roof. Like "Ex-squeeze me, Hilary Clinton, but I think I am solely responsible for shattering that glass ceiling. Glad you took advantage of following in my courageous footsteps."

Save The Last Dance is an excellent documentary about WGLB.

Only one thing left to do, and that is dance. Begin. Raise one arm in the air, wrap the other arm around your body, twist your hip, shimmy shimmy, bite your lip.bite.your.lip.bite.your.lip.bite.your.lip.

Ladies and gentleman, what I like to call, 'The White* Girl Lip Bite.' In one simple move, bottom lip tucked neatly under your top set of teeth, you can seriously convey the subtlety of your sensuality and the vigor of your sex drive. In the single gesture, a suitor can see just HOW fun, HOW sexy and maybe HOW beautifully shy you are. Like, you aren't always at the club busting moves you are also studying to be an organic chemist and by the way this is the first time you've worn contact lenses. Most importantly, the WGLB solves the age old issue of what to do with your mouth while dancing.**


*Disclaimer: All races and genders eligible to use WHITE GIRL LIP BITE, the name is simply derived from the species first witnessed using this mating ritual.
**  Note: Don't put your fingers in your mouth.

You Can't Instagram Everything, But You Should Try

What a week? Am I right? First we celebrate some dead white guys and an alive half white guy, and then it's Smokey Robinson AND Jeff Daniel's birthday, and it's like seriously, how am I supposed to keep up with how exciting this week is?! Do I even OWN enough Aderall?!?!

So, like everyone, I've spent more time than usual on the computer trolling my high school classmates' new boyfriends and the food they've instagrammed. (Both look delicious--get it, girl!) Feeling super up to date on people I don't care about's lives makes me feel both accomplished and creepy. But here is the thing, y'all, I don't deny it. I have a Facebook and I use it. Not a lot of things bother me (loljk, I have a blog, clearly a TON of things irk me) but something that really gets on my nerves is when people* pretend like they 1) don't Facebook stalk people when they clearly do and 2) that their participation in social media is somehow accidental. (No one is that whimsical!)

Example: I ran into a friend the other day who I hadn't seen in a few months. Really nice guy. Okay face. Soul of Gold. Body of soft maleable lumpy gold. Anyways, here is an excerpt of our conversation.

Me: Glad things are going well for you. I've been doing great, too!
Him: Yeah? Awesome. Oh man, I heard you didn't have heat in your apartment...
Me: Heard? Oh you mean--
Him: No, someone told me you didn't have heat in your apartment. Ok, gotta go, haha, BYE. 

And just like *that* he tripped down an entire flight of subway stairs. But I knew that no one had told him I didn't have heat because 1) we have very few mutual friends and 2) I highly doubt anyone cared past raising their eyebrows about me not having heat. He read it on my blog. And he found my blog because I purposely post it on every social media platform my work computer let's me access. (Still working on linking from my YouPorn account.) (just joking) (I'll never link from there.)

This also works vice versa when people try to make you feel creepy because you reference/remember their tweets. But don't act coy! Those tweets didn't mistakenly make it from your secret diary to your twitter/Facebook/whatever. You were clearly sitting on the toilet drafting the most clever way to let everyone know something funny happened at work and when you hit send being like, "BINGO! Bring on the retweets!" We're living in a share-share-share world. That's why we watch Catfishing Housewives of LA. That is why I don't unfriend people's ex boyfriends who now have face tattoos.

Take pride in all those grilled cheeses you instagram, the selfies you post, or the song lyrics you tweet. Or don't. Whatever. But don't pretend like anything you post on the internet is ultra-personal, secret, and not being checked out by some creepy dude at 3 in the morning.


* 'people' here being people who are active on the internet/social media. This might not necessarily be you, and if that's the case I probably think you are mysterious and have a super huge crush on you.

Pilatte' with Extra Whip Cream

I wouldn't go so far to say I am a Pilates freak, but I do love Pilates and I am a freak, so for the sake of this post, we will assume that I am.

There is a repose and vigor to the exercise. Plus you can casually give people helpful stretches or poses to do if they say their shoulder or sit bones hurt. But no matter what, there is a mental journey I go on during every Pilates or Yoga class. Please join me in this recreation.

You first arrive and are a little skeptical of your flexibility. Also of what you ate for lunch. Why must you always have hot wings pre-Pilates. Does everyone know? Are you allowed to eat meat and take these sorts of classes? What if I don't know what the newest kind of almond milk is? Who will love me in this small studio space?

Getting a little further into the class, you're more in the groove. Who cares if your form isn't perfect? You are a unique human being with a harmonious body and no one can tell you differently! Except maybe the super toned, beautiful, racially ambiguous class instructor who keeps correcting your downward dog. But maybe she just wants to touch my body. Yeah, that is definitely it. I practically am a downward dog.

Oh hell yeah, girl. You should be teaching this class. Quit your day job and just become a Pilates instructor who feasts on berries and tempeh protein shakes. Get rid of your cell phone and solely communicate through fuchsia energy waves. You could easily fall off the grid into a hammock on a Costa Rican coffee bean plantation and just live your life with a purpose only those who do Pilates can understand. Can you believe some people eat processed foods? It makes me so sad for humanity. 

Okay, wait, shit. This is really hard. You have tipped over the crest of that good-vibe wave and it is a serious wipeout. Pilates is not fun. The fear mongering liberal media has infiltrated your sweet baby brain to make you afraid of things that don't even exist like cellphone waves and osteoporosis. You are just a pawn in their long term plan to run this country on patchouli oil.

Fuck this noise. I'm gonna go home and watch some porn after this. That'll be more enlightening.

~NAMASTE~