The other day, my neighbor left off a bag full of women's magazines in front of my door. Of course, I initially assumed it was some sort of elaborate death threat. I live in Los Angeles, people! Everyone has seen A Beautiful Mind, and everyone is crazy. 

As it turns out, he was not leaving deeply encrypted messages about no one having me if he couldn't have me. He was simply thanking me for not stealing his package off of his doorstep, I think? Which is a weird thing to appreciate because where the hell did you live that having your mail stolen became your normal? But whatever, free magazine!

Combing through the bounty, I was relieved to see it contained the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. Phew! Let's face it, you guys: A bag full of women's magazines would not be a bag full of women's magazines without a copy of Cosmo. It would be like having a world war and not even inviting Germany! I mean, I'm not going to buy one of their damn magazines or anything- unless I'm getting on an airplane. In that case, I am handing my life over to a couple of middle-aged Texans in crappy American Flag ties steering a metal can through thin air 30,000 feet above planet Earth. In that case, I need something that makes me feel stupider than the pilots. But yeah, under normal circumstances, you don't spend actual money on Cosmo.  

But there's something still enjoyable about Cosmo, no? The same kind of enjoyment you get from eating an uber-processed, sugary cereal right outta the box? The kind of cereal that's so gross they can't even spell its name like a real English word? And you're getting kinda sick but you just keep eating it and eating it until you hate yourself but you're physically unable to prevent yourself from cramming the next fistful into your idiot face unless you throw the box away? Yeah, reading Cosmo is that kind of fun. 

Wait, where am I? The whole point of this introduction was to explain why I decided to write this stupid blog post in the first place, and now I'm getting frustrated. Ugh. I think my point is that I can write one of those stupid articles, too. So Cosmo, or any of you other magazines that arbitrarily shorten words to sound cute (arbitrarbs sho wor to so cu?), the ball is now in your court.  Article after the the jump.

No graphic pictures, but don't read at work if your bosses are upset by frequent mention of the word sex, and probably don't read at a library unless you want to get a reputation for being the guy that goes to the library to read dirty stuff, and definitely don't read at a school full of children, what is wrong with you.

also: don't actually do any of these

As regular readers already know, I occasionally run out of all ideas forever. When that happens, I turn things over to a special guest blogger: my second-cousin-through-an-arranged-marriage Leanne! Leanne hails from the tiny town of Catholics-on-the-Spit, Arkansas. Last time she visited (due to an unfortunate outbreak of excrement-related illness), she was able to whip up a very compelling blog post that had readers glued to their seats instead of their glue-sniffing bottles (because they sniff glue). Now that she's back in town under happier circumstances (a tin recycler's convention in the "suburbs" of Riverside, CA), I've invited her to do another post. Again, I apologize for her use of all-capital letters and inconsistent adherence to the laws of grammar. Still, I think it is important to give a voice to the opinions that we, enshrined in the carbonite of our cultural elitism, may otherwise overlook. 

also i didn't know what else to do :0(

Full disclosure: An earlier version of this story was previously published on this blog. 



Fuller disclosure: By "earlier version" I mean the first part was posted as an entry and I just copied and pasted that bad boy like a BOSS because plagiarizing others is for chump celebrities. Plagiarizing yourself is for cooool dudes. 

Fullerest disclosure: Also the other day I ate a whole bag of sour cream n' cheddar Ruffles :0(


Once upon a time, in a land far, far, away that was much wetter than our own, lived a young whale. He was similar to the other whales in that all whales pretty much look alike. But he was no ordinary whale! He was SKRILLERX! While the other whales his age ate seals and talked about doin' it with lady whales, Skrillerx ate skrill and jammed out on his aquatic keyboard. The other whales did not understand why Skrillerx was strange and why he did not like the things they liked, and so they shunned him in their whale fashion, which is to say they whale honked at frequencies Skrillerx did not understand. Skrillerx grew lonely and sad, and he grew his whale hair into a weird half-dreadlocked, half--buzzcut ordeal. Every day after skrool, he came home and cried whale tears that were as big and salty as the ocean he swam in (this is why whales are so super good at hiding their pain). 

One day Skrillerx was tapping out a weepy tune on his aquatic keyboard when he heard a strange noise. It was low and rumbling, and did not contain any grating high-pitched noises (the kind of noises he would put into his music, if he were ever to release a hot aquatic club jam).  What could the noise be? Skrillerx opened the door with his wee little fin and ... GASPED! It was former Skrexretary of State Henry Skrissingerx!

"Skrillerx! Do you know who I am?" boomed the dignitary.

"Why yes, Henry. Why, every young whale learns about you in skristoryx class!"

"How sad. For I am not a relic of the past, I am a beacon of... THE FUTURE!" With that, Henry spread his human fins out as wide as the ocean itself and shook Skrillerx's tiny room with his booming voice. "I am here because The Future needs you."

Skrillerx blinked his eyes. He blinked his real eyes, not the patchy things above his eyes which look kinda like eyes, what's all that about, some kind of Batesian mimicry or something? Anyway, Skrillerx the Skriller whale blinked his dumb eyes, and Henry Skrissingerx laughed. Somewhere, a baby cried, and somebody mindlessly checked Facebook. 

"The Future? What's it like?" queried Skrillerx, finally pulling his ocean mammal shit together.

Skrissingerx removed his glasses and rubbed out a smudge on the lens, which I promise is not a euphemism for masturbation although it would be good as one. "It is a dark time. Democracy is in shambles. Food is scarce. Radios play our fascist regime's Code of Conduct twenty-four hours a day. Michael Bay is president, somehow."

"Oh no!" 

"But the people hunger for change, Skrillerx. They need it. They need you." 

"What could the Future possibly need from me?" said Skrillerx, stupidly. 

"Michael Bay has captured one of the most important and beautiful women of all time. It goes without saying, but when we are talking about women, important and beautiful are the same thing."

Skrillerx the Skriller whale nodded vigorously. "Skrynonymsx." 

"You are wise beyond your species. I believe you are the only one that can help us. You must... save Skrillary Swankrx!"

TO BE CONTINUED IF I FEEL LIKE IT 

Oh boy, it's Monday! That means it's the start of another work week. It's also the start of another week in which you go home, alone, to your empty apartment and fantasize about your own funeral over a microwave Smart Ones! Is someone playing the only Talking Heads song you know, because "How Did You Get Here?!?"

Climb down from your bridges, ladies, and get those guns out of your mouth! You don't want to get lip gloss on the barrel! You are a strong, independent, bloated, modern woman. You know this because articles in women-themed magazines tell you so. So what if you haven't found your prince charming? You've found something better: the meaninglessness of all existence such that any and all acquisitions like "love" or "successful relationships" now seem irrelevant in the grand scheme of our infinite, dying universe.  Work your sadness like a divaaaaaaa!

Here's a list of RED HOTTE (tm) tips on how to make the most of your inconsequential time on this earth, during which you will suffer greatly before succumbing to mortality in desperate solitude. So grab your appletinis and your razor blades, and read this red-hot list so that this red-hot list is read!

1. TRY A MASK

And no, we don't mean the false self you present to others in an effort to hide your existential angst! Give your face a break from all that pretending and whip up a homemade relaxation  mask. We like the following:
 
1 cup low-fat Greek yogurt, YES low-fat and YES Greek; you're not dead yet, girl! 
1 tablespoon honey
2 teaspoons himalayan pink salt crystals
1 bathrobe

Pour ingredients into a blender. Pulse for 30 seconds, then rest hands on counter and feel the weight of your own self-criticism. Pulse 30 more sec. Curl up on kitchen floor and cry until sunrise. Serves 1. 


2. PICK OUT THE SHOES YOU WILL BE BURIED IN 

There is one thing that every single magazine, movie, sitcom, sketch parody, stand-up comic, and morning radio personality has gotten correct: Every woman LOVES shoes. EVERY SINGLE ONE. In fact, the only thing keeping most gals tethered to this mortal coil is the opportunity to buy more SHOOOOOES! Convert those Converse-cravings into a committal conversation piece. Choose a pair that flatters your personality: flats for a sensible, Sylvia- Plath quoting pessimist; black stilettos for the workaholic masking a crippling fear of inadequacy. For the clinically depressed suburban mother experimenting with an eating disorder: a summery pair of espadrilles. 

3. SPORT A "FLAT AFFECT" TO MATCH YOUR "FLAT BELLY"!

Don't reach for the cupcakes yet, girl: there are still a few weeks left of bikini season! If you're looking for a bold twist on the beach babe look to help you make it through the summer or at least one more day, just one more unending day, we got you covered like a sarong! Ha ha, simile! Anyway, pair your bodacious bod with an inability to experience either highs or lows of any kind. Bonus: numbing your emotions will help curb your raging appetite by making tastes, smells, colors, and life generally unappealing!


4. PUT ON SOME MUSIC!

Try Joy Division's Unknown Pleasures, Portishead's Dummy, or the cassette tape I made in 6th grade that's just REM's "Everybody Hurts" over and over (both sides). 

1. they don't have clinical depression

2. they don't read lists like this 

3. i don't know, but i'll tell you what it's NOT: vomiting after brunch

4. they aren't crushed under the despair of inescapable debt

5. no matter what, they put on a SMILE (tm)!
    SMILE (tm), the Semi-automated Mood-Inducing Life Emulator 
    a registered trademark of FUNtacular! Industries
    a division of Halliburton

6. for real though, how do they do it? is it maybe that our culture prioritizes instant gratification to the degree that third-rate web "authors" can recycle the same tired bullet-point tips about one should live one's life without any acknowledgement that so-called "negative" feelings like sadness, loneliness, and envy are a normal part of the human experience and shouldn't be seen as something to scrub away with clickbait pop psychology?

7. maybe it's some kind of brain parasite or something