Girl, gone

So, despite the recent Ebola epidemic that is spreading fast and sure to kill us all, I decided to venture out of my house this weekend (an event that rarely happens unless I am low on grapefruits, half and half or bubble wrap). This was a risky venture but, at the time, I thought it would be well worth-it. I went to go see the movie Gone Girl.

I have read the book and very much enjoyed it. In fact, Gillian Flynn has written an array of fucked up books that I did not hate. Although, I will admit, I have spent many hours up at night contemplating whether or not Flynn should be locked up in a jail somewhere, due to all the fucked up shit she has concocted in her novels (Sharp Objects and Dark Places were were equally disturbingly entertaining). Regardless, I had semi-high hopes when going to see this movie, as I do with all movies that I splurge 12 dollars for (instead of watching it illegally online like a logical person).

But, you know what happens when you have high hopes for movies... especially when that movie stars Ben Affleck (do not say I did not warn you Batman fanatics!).

Gone Girl was a disappointment almost from the get-go. Ben Affleck's emotional range is nothing to be desired. He pretty much makes Miranda Cosgrove look like Meryl Streep, in comparison.

LOOK AT ME... I'M BEN AFFLECK AND I'M MAD SO I'M GONNA BREAK THIS GLASS TO PROVE IT!!!!

The truth is, Ben Affleck needs to break glasses when he is mad because you can not tell what he is feeling otherwise. He stayed with the same flat affect throughout the entire movie. Happy Ben, Sad Ben, Mad Ben, Anxious Ben, Nervous Ben, Horny Ben... each one of these Bens looks exactly the same. Ben, it may have worked for Voyage of the Mimi back in the day, but now you gotta put on your big boy actor panties and you gotta, you know, act like an actual person who smiles, who laughs, who cries and who gets mad (without breaking things).

Not even his side-dick could save the movie from itself (and that is when you know the situation is dire). Quite a cheap move, if you ask me. I mean, we were all subjected to two sets of boobs, would it kill you to give us a proper look at a johnson for once, David Fincher?

I will admit, Rosamund Pike did a decent job portraying Amy. However, was I the only one who was semi-annoyed by her voice? Half of the time I could not quite understand what she was saying. Her voice almost sounded like a distant, low murmuring that was making me think I was perhaps turning into one of the geriatrics that were swarming the theatre that I was in. The geriatrics that I was shamelessly making fun of moments earlier (karma?!).

Besides these issues, as a person who read the novel, I felt that the complexity of the characters was absent. For instance, the movie portrayed Nick's character as a sort of protagonist to Amy's antagonism. Whereas, in the book, both of the characters seemed equally unlikable and, without a doubt, a lot more complicated and three-dimensional.

For one thing, one of my favorite quotes in the entire book was butchered up and seemed quite out of place in the movie. The "Cool girl" speech that Amy recites, perhaps is what made Amy's character so interesting. Here we had a seemingly, completely psychotic biddy stating very real truths about femininity and relationships:

"Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)”

I think most heterosexual girls relate to this monologue in some way, shape or form. The main idea being that the "cool girl," or the girl that all guys want, is a person that girls are forced to pretend to be. You know how girls all throughout football season post on Facebook, pretending to watch games? And you know how they pose like bro-hoes with their cute little jerseys, pretending to give two shits about any of it? In reality, they do know know the difference between the Super Bowl and ComicCon. That is the "Cool girl." That girl seldom exists.

For the record, I actually do like hot dogs. Do not be fooled though, I am anything but cool (I put ketchup on them!!!)

Although the character of Amy is malevolent, the book can be interpreted as a sort of radical feminist rebellion. Amy is rebelling against the constraints of females in relationships (perhaps drastically and not in a sane matter, but a rebellion, nonetheless). 

The real issue I had was that this monologue was butchered and somewhat overshadowed in the movie. The film focused so much more on making Nick the character we empathize with and Amy the psychobitch (echoing the motif of the "Mad Woman in the Attic"), that this speech was easily ignored and somewhat presented out of context. By simplifying these characters, the complexity of the story was lost on the audience. Instead, we are presented with a narrative that is male-dominated, with its female protagonist essentially muted.

The film did not do these characters justice. So often in mainstream film, (the middle-brow media, in my humble opinion) the writer and director is forced to water down characters and make everything a lot more simple for the assumed moronic audience to understand. Nick, a character in the book that was misogynistic, is made into a different type of character in the movie. The film version of Nick Dunne seemed to have the volume turned down on his misogynist tendencies (aside from the occasional "cunt" outburst... but haven't we all been there?!) to make him more likable and to give the viewer "someone to root for," so to speak.

So, while those who skipped over the book and saw the movie may presume that Gillian Flynn simply made a film about a psycho-bitch who married a horny dude, perhaps it would do you some good to read the book and then make your feminist critiques.

For those of you who have not seen the movie yet, save your 12 dollars to buy the book or maybe just use it to go out to dinner to Cheesecake Factory. I hear the Oreo cheesecake there is to DIE for.

XOXO,

Jules

Tragedy Hits Jersey

These past couple of days, I have been completely beside myself with grief. Many have told me that I have looked distant and, often times, on the brink of tears. But how can anyone really go back to life the way we knew it? How can we go on with our lives knowing that Teresa Giudice and her husband are going to jail?

Teresa Giudice and her husband Giuseppe Giudice were sentenced to jail time on conspiracy and bankruptcy fraud charges. Theresa was sentenced to 15 months of jail and Giuseppe, 41 months. But, DO NOT WORRY, Teresa will not have to turn herself in until January 5! The judge did this so Teresa can spend the holidays with her family one last time before getting locked up for what will, most likely, be for a few days.

The reality star shit dicks will serve their terms at different times so there will be at least one parent with their four kids at a given time.

I know, we are all thinking the same thing. What has this world come to? Sending white people to jail?

This is not a world that makes sense, this is not a world that I am comfortable with. Maybe the Ebola has gone to everyone's heads. Maybe this is, FINALLY, the sign of the ACTUAL apocalypse  (an apocalypse that I have incorrectly predicted about four times already...)

White people being held accountable for their action? I am just as shocked and appalled as the Giudice's Real Housewives co-stars. If anyone has caught an episode of the current season of Real Housewives of New Jersey (a show that I have regrettably picked up recently due to boredom and Housewives withdrawal, as all the other housewives locations are on hiatus). All of Teresa's fellow Housewives' and husbands have spent the entire season, thus far, lamenting the "tragedy" that is the Guidice's life. Scene after scene we see rich white people crying...

"I can't believe this is my life," Teresa says into the camera, sitting in her 14 million dollar house. And neither can anyone else, apparently.

In hopes of helping Teresa get through these trying times, I created a list of things she could bring to the spa-- I mean jail, when she gets locked up.

1) A poster of Ariana Grande: Ariana is pretty. She needs a pretty girl in her life.

2) A copy of the film Garden State: the pseudo-poignant soundtrack and unnecessarily "deep" dialogue  have been said to lead to some fake epiphanies for some basic bitches, I hear. She needs a fake epiphany.

3) A foot massager: foot massagers are a must-have in rich people jail. She needs a good foot massage in her life.

4) A CD containing only songs written and sung by Vanessa Carlton: Explanation not necessary. She needs a little Vanessa in her life, as does everyone.

5) A piece of poop scented air freshener: this way, Theresa can feel like she's at home in New Jersey at all times. She needs to feel at home.

6) A year's supply of Kleenex tissues: Theresa is a Taurus, after all. Those idiots are constantly crying. She needs crying in her life.

7) A two year's supply of Mallomars: Teresa needs Mallomars more than anyone I know. The situation is dire.

Happy jail time, Teresa! If I learned anything from Orange is the New Black, it is that prison is kind of a ballin' time.

XOXO,
Jules

A Hug a Day

The issue that I am about to speak of is very rarely discussed. Although I have found very few who share my sentiments, it is hard to believe that I am among the minority who can go the rest of their life without hugging another human being and be completely content, nay, ELATED by the thought of this.

There is not much literature about those who just do not want to hug other human beings twenty-four, seven. Now, do not get me wrong, there is a time and a place that I find that hugs are not completely repulsive and vomit inducing. These occasions, however, are not as often as our very ignorant society wants us to believe.

For so long, so many people have tried to make me feel like I was the one with the "problem." For so long, people tried to convince me that I had some kind of "intimacy" issue (gross, who the fuck says intimacy anyways? I hate myself for even typing the word). For so long, people have insisted on psychoanalyzing my desire to not be touched by people who I am not either: A) related to or B) good friends with or C) fucking (and even then, I think if we are fucking, a hug is pretty damn unnecessary).

...disturbing. That was hard to watch.

Oh, she was probably not hugged enough when she was a child. Oh, she was probably hugged too much as a child. Oh, she must of had a traumatizing experience with hugs that she has repressed all of these years. Oh, she must be some kind of serial killer or, even worse, a REPUBLICAN. I have heard it all, people.

The truth of the matter is, hugs are silly and they are often forced intimacy. Neither party wishes all that much to take part in the hug, but they feel like they can not leave the room unless they have followed a certain protocol.

Hugs also set up a new platform for judgment. Constantly I find myself in front of a judge and jury of my peers, pointing out the shortcomings of my embraces. "You hugged too tight," "You didn't hug tight enough," "You need to tap my back three times, not two," "Don't grab my butt, that's sexual assault," these are just some of the frivolous complaints that I have no time for.

You know that age-old scenario where you are out with your friend and your friend runs into a "close friend" of theirs who you have never met before and who happens to be with some other "close friends" who you have never met before. Well, after some friendly conversation, when it is time to leave, your friend (a serial hugger) decides to begin the hugging ceremony, not leaving until each and every one of these people receives a proper hug. Where does that leave you? Yup, you guessed it, forced into the hugging ceremony yourself. There you are, expected to hug complete and utter strangers for no good reason. Who needs enemies when you have THAT kind of a friend? This is why I do not leave my house anymore... because of people like this.

Now, you would think that once the secret is out about your distaste for hugging, things would get better, right? WRONG! People just LOVE to talk about how you hate hugging and it ACTUALLY makes you more desirable to hug. People want to hug the unwilling, it is just a fact.

Unavailability is the most desirable trait in any woman or man. People always want to hug what they can not have.

Then, there is the constant task of coaxing other people's fears and insecurities, to convince them that it is not that you are not hugging them because they are disgusting. You try to convince them that it is you who has the problem, not them! The classic, "it's not you, it's me."

Well, guess what, assholes! It's not me, it's fucking you! A hearty handshake should fucking do the trick. A passionate and heartfelt high-five is just as valuable as any hug.

Open your mind and close your arms for crying out loud! See something from my perspective for once!

XOXO,
Jules

In the Words of Young Weezy...

"If you need an example for how to live, then you shouldn't have been born." For a man who is filled with wise words and bon mots, this is perhaps the most profound. Well, excluding, "filet mignon that pussy", of course (but that goes without saying...).

The quote has a simple message, denouncing role models and, instead, promoting self-expression and independence. In a society that is obsessed with this idea of "role models," we have forced un-role model-y people into this category without their consent and with no thought to how counterproductive this really is.

Celebrities, athletes and public figures are left with no choice but to be "role models" to young children and young adults (AND TO EVEN ADULTS!) Well guess what, nit wits? Not everyone wants to be a fucking role model. And, to be frank, I don't fucking blame them. This is America, goddammit.

For years I have heard arguments against people like Britney Spears and Miley Cyrus or any of these other women (who at the end of the day are just trying to score a buck). People have bitched for years that these women are "horrible role models for girls." And while I agree that these women do not exactly follow the "feminist" agenda, they also never signed up for that shit. If you do not want your daughter watching Britney parading around in a thong and a snake around her neck... then don't let your daughter watch Britney parade around with a thong on and a snake around her neck, for crying out loud.

Solutions, I have 'em.

These people are not Harriet Tubman, Mother Theresa or Rosa Parks. These are CELEBRITIES.

Now, with this recent Ray Rice incident, the public should (but probably won't) take away some crucial  lessons:

1) Elevators have changed. A spot that used to be on the sex bucket list for many (a place for erections and love-making), has turned into a place of terror and brutality. First, the Solange-Jay-Z thing and now this!  If you can, take the stairs, escalator or avoid any functions where you will have to leave the ground floor.

2) Just because someone is a professional athlete, does not make them a "hero," or even a role model, for that matter.

Let me expand on number 2. Many people seemed to be shocked and disillusioned by the video footage that came out of Ray Rice punching and knocking his wife unconscious. It was as if they found out that Santa Claus wasn't real or that Mother Theresa was actually a serial rapist. People were shocked and outraged by the NFL for covering up this disgusting act of domestic violence, as if they have not been doing this since the beginning of time.

But why were people so shocked by the NFL's actions?

 For so long people have been brainwashed to think that these athletes are these heroic figures who performed miracles (Mariano Rivera made a blind man see!) When, in reality, they are just overpaid people with a skill. These corporations have sold images of heroes and knights in shining armor and, you my dumb biddy friends, have bought into it completely.

The recent heroizing of Derek Jeter has been a constant presence in both my news feed and media coverage. People, I know he's hot (and I have wanted to bang him since I was five) and he can catch a ball really well, but did he solve world hunger? Did he find the cure for AIDs? Did he do ANYTHING besides play fucking baseball?! Questions, I pose them.

If you answered no to all of those questions, then I ask you, what makes him so great? What makes any of these professional athletes heroes in our eyes? Why are we surprised when we see these organizations trying to cover for the people we have bought into? I mean, people still love Kobe Bryant, despite the fact that he is clearly a serious sex-offender.

If you ask me, (which you didn't, but I don't care) people get upset when their illusion is shattered for any amount of time. They feel uncomfortable when they find out that A-Rod is a raging douche bag or that Ray Rice is not the person they want their son to grow up to be. But rather, that these peole embody and suffer the human condition just like the rest of us, including anger, hate, greed and violence. Why are people so obsessed with this heroizing or demonizing of everyone and everything? Why can't people just be, like, humans? Why do we need to suck every professional athletes player's dick (metaphorically and literally)?

If you ask me, I am sick of the dick sucking. It is quite tedious and, truth be told, my jaw is awfully fatigued.

Besides, if people should be looking up to anyone, they should be looking up to ME.

Holla!!!!!!

XOXO,
Jules

The Jennifer Lawrence Debacle

Again, another couple of weeks go by and I ignorantly shirk my duties as royal biddy queen. Not to mention the fact that this has been a CRUCIAL past couple of weeks in the blogosphere and you guys probably need me now more than ever. Let us review the past couple of weeks: Olivia Wilde posed while breast feeding her child sexily (as if there is any other way to breast feed your child if you are Olivia Wilde!), at least four different female celebrity posed nude while pregnant (they are so original!), Taylor Swift continues to make a spectacle of herself and, oh, re-update: Nikki Minaj still has a big ol' ass.

Surprise, surprise.

But most recently, the articles that have grabbed most of the public's attention are related to the "scandal" involving some leaked nude photos of Jennifer Lawrence and company. Jennifer Lawrence has established herself as the "girl next door" who is just "SO relatable you can't even believe it!!!!!" For years now, she has talked nonsense about "being fat" and obsessively blabs in interviews about her supposed "love" for eating.

I do not think I am the only one who is not fooled by this malarkey. While Jennifer thinks this may sound genuine and relatable, anyone with half a brain would stop and ask the questions: "uh, you're fat? So what the fuck does that make me? A candidate for gastric bypass surgery?" Just because you eat a snack once a week, does not give the license to sell yourself as a token "fat girl." You have a nice ass and huge tits, that is not "fat." (This is a constant thing I see in the media, skinny girls with big tits and nice asses referring to themselves as "fat." They think that this gives them the right to hate on "skinny bitches" everywhere. Well, blow me!)

Okay, back to the main topic at hand. Celebrities like Lena Dunham have quickly come to Jennifer's defense, stating how the people who post these photos are sex-offenders and some other stuff about feminism or whatever.

Also, Lena has even condemned all of those who were curious enough to sneak-a-peak at Jennifer's junk. I have a strange inkling, however, that  Lena is just jealous that people are distracted and are not looking at HER vagina for once. Each episode of Girls assaults the viewer with Lena's naked body. God FORBID we saw anyone else naked now and then.

"LOOK AT MY VAGINA!!!! LOOK AT IT!!!!!!!!!! LOOK AT IT NOW!!!!" -Lena Dunham

Then, you have people like Ricky Gervais who (rather callously) claims that celebrities should not take these pictures and keep them on their phone if they do not want the public to see them. This is a stance that seemingly many social media users have agreed with over the past week. Many have seemingly blamed Jennifer Lawrence for the whole entire thing!

Personal side note: I believe the last nudie that I took of myself was when I was about seven years old. I used a polaroid camera to take a picture of my butt in order to piss off my older sister. That was the end of my nude modeling career, if I remember correctly. I tried to get that photo leaked for YEARS, to no avail. I even taped it on the door of my room but it never went viral.

I think I can articulate my thoughts about this issue similarly to how you explain defensive driving. Allow me to give you these pearls of wisdom (keep up, bitches!)!! When we learn drive, we learn the rules of the road, the rules that that we will legally be held accountable for. When we are taught to be defensive drivers, we learn things beyond what we are "legally" obligated to do. We learn how to foresee other people's mistakes or miscalculations on the road and how to avoid them. For example, if we see we are about to be hit by a car making a stupid move on the road, we do not just stay the course because we are legally "doing the right thing," we avoid the collision and make up for the other douche bag's short-comings. If we are hit, it is not our fault but... who the fuck wants to get hit either way?! This is how everyone should treat this particular issue about technology and social media. Yes, Jennifer's privacy was violated and that is wrong. She never had any intentions or desire to share those pictures with the public and she has every right to her privacy. However, malicious and self-serving people exist and that's just the fact of life. What's more, these douche bags aren't going ANYWHERE, anytime soon. So, to keep things safe, if you wanna keep your cooch to yourself, do not take any nude pictures on your phone and save it on your iCloud.

By the way, how the FUCK does the iCloud work anyways? The increasingly dark and mysterious ways of the iClould should be motivation enough to keep your shit on lockdown.

Love me,
XOXO
Jules

Keep Talkin', You're Makin' Me Famous

I know it is hard to believe it when you look at me now, but I was not always the bangin' biddy you see typing before you. As a struggling baby biddy, I left little to be desired by my fellow peers. To be honest, no one even cared to look my way. Many who graduated from high school in my grade do not even know my name and probably could not pick my face out of a line-up. This anonymity bothered me for a long while. Why didn't anyone say I was finger blasted by Rich Corbin in the gym locker room in 7th grade? Why didn't anyone bother to talk about the fact that I had left my pits un-shaved for a whole month in 8th grade?

A ghost biddy was what I was and what I would continue to be.

As I approached my high school years, I came to embrace this inconspicuous existence. I could fart in a whole classroom full of people and no one would even hear it. I could light up a joint in the middle of biology class and no one would even look my way. It was like being fucking Harry Potter with that fucking invisibility cloak shit. I was on top of the world and no one even knew it!

In all seriousness, my loner-status became a part of my identity, not only as as a person, but even as a writer. I took pride in being the one who is on the outside, looking in. I fancied myself a sort of Henry David Thoreau (but, like, a little cuter and less of a fan of ponds or any other fresh-water bodies). Or perhaps I was more like an Emily Dickinson (but with few social skills). I really grew to love being the judge and not the one being judged... that was really working out well for me.

But then, as quickly as you can say "butt crack," things seemed to change for me recently. All of a sudden, people had something to fucking say. All of a sudden, people started to learn my name for crying out loud! I mean, granted, they learned it wrong. They called me the dreaded: "JuliAWnna." Regardless, they were calling me A name and that is where all the trouble began.

The moment people learn your name, you are absolutely screwed. It is hard to talk about "that person with the hair and the face and the teeth." It is much easier to have a conversation about you when they can identify you. In fact, people need to know very little else about you in order to talk shit. Once they have got that down, the slandering can begin. (Some may think I am being facetious and those who think that are ignorantly living in bliss. I envy your stupidity, I really do).

All it takes is for them to know your name in order to concoct an elaborate story about how you are sleeping with this, that and the other thing. Your favorite color? Your birthday? Your favorite Spice Girl? All of that information is irrelevant when people are bored and there is nothing better on television that month.

Dragging someone's professional reputation through the mud is completely necessary when the gallon of Ben & Jerry's is finished, when you have not had any OKCupid dates lately and when Orange is the New Black is on hiatus (fuck Orange is the New Black, by the way). 

6th grade Jules would have been absolutely thrilled about this new found fame. 6th grade me could be fake sleeping with fucking EVERYONE for all she cared! Color me slutty, as long as they knew my name, I would have been over the fucking moon.

The sad truth of the matter is, there is no story to tell. In the words of Shannon Beador, "The OC is full of secrets but I have nothing to hide." (Instead of the OC, you can insert "Westchester," of course). But actually, my life is as boring, action-less and sex-less as an old granny (and I am not talking about the grannies in the nursing homes... because those old biddies are getting some... more than just some, in fact). But, you know, by all means, talk shit about the stuff that I am NOT doing. Say what you want about my imaginary slutty life. Keep talkin', bitches, you're making this biddy famous.

But do me a small favor? My name is Julianna... it's not fucking JuliAWnna for the love of everything holy.

XOXO,
Jules

When A Biddy Gets Blocked

I am quite of ashamed and disgusted with myself. It has been nearly a month since my last post and here I have the absolute nerve to even show my face in the biddy universe again. I am asking, nay, begging for your forgiveness. I humbly ask that you allow me to keep my title as queen of the Biddyverse.

The truth of the matter is, I have a very valid excuse as to why I have not been doing my usual ranting and bitching over the interwebs. In addition, if it helps matters, I still have been keeping up my badmouthing and biddy queen duties outside of the cyber world (ya know, like, the real world). Do not get it twisted though, I am as real, raw and relentless as ever.

Biddy block has been a big issue for me this past month. It is a real condition that affects over eighty percent of the biddy population. Maya Angelou had it and I even read that Ernest Hemingway battled it in a big way (along with, ya know, impotency and just general chauvinistic douchebaggery). It is an ailment that disables biddies in all walks of life from reaching their bitching potential on their respective blogs (or books, for that matter). There are various remedies to this paralyzing plague of epic destruction.

The first remedy: A delicious grapefruit

There is absolutely nothing that can lift your spirits and your vitamin intake like a decadent grapefruit. Juicy, elegant and bold in everything that it does, grapefruits are the ultimate biddy rejuvenator. I had gone weeks without eating this magical fruit and, let me tell you, I paid the piper. They have gone out of season and, sadly, out of my life. It was not until this week when I was given one by one of my loyal biddy minions, that I finally BEGAN to feel like myself again. I am finally starting to feel alive and free. The grapefruit shampoo was just not enough to get me through this dark time of grapefruit off-season.

The second remedy: the whole first season of Buckwild

This may sound arbitrary and excessive and well, it is. However, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I binge-watched the whole first season of Buckwild, just to get my blood pumping and lady juices flowing (that sounds disgusting...and awesome). Young Americans with nothing but a bag of potato chips and a shit ton of tarp to do slip-and-slide on will make you see Jesus (...or at least kill a lot of time on a Saturday).

The third remedy: self-loathing

So, after you finish the entire season of Buckwild, you will be faced with the inevitable feeling of self-loathing because... you just watched an entire fucking season of Buckwild. This wave of self-loathing is one far worse than any gallon of ice cream can handle. This is a job that only a biddy blog can fulfill. It is the only place where you can make sense of the atrocity that you just committed...the absolute only way. (Plus you are probably grieving the loss of the late cast member Shain).

The fourth (and final remedy): listen to Party in the USA at least twenty times on repeat.

This final step is crucial. Miley just has a way of reminding us of what is important in life. She is my friend, my teacher, my guide and my pet.

As you can all see, I am trying to wipe this rust off of my biddy crown and get things back on track. Please forgive me for my sins.

Love you bitches!

XOXO,
Jules