I Can't
I can’t… that more than a few people over the past however many months I’ve been on Instagram really think that the “129 W 81st Street, Apt 5A” address I map is my actual apartment. Really? REALLY?!!? To the point where they comment, “Emma… seriously? You put your full address? Do you know how dangerous that is?” No. I don’t know and I am hoping to be stalked and murdered. If you don’t know where that address is from, I’m not gonna judge you because you’d have to be a serious fanatic like me, but if you DO know – we should probably meet.
I can’t…
imagine if Thanksgiving was in the summertime. I mean, I know that’s a dumb hypothetical, but think about it – that heavy of a meal, accompanied by wine and having to see extended family in the dead heat of July/August? Those pilgrims and stuff were smart making it happen in cold months and junk.
I can’t…
miss when and if Lorde comes through Dallas in all her teenage glory. I have no shame in buying a ticket for that show the minute they go on sale and standing in the audience amongst countless teeny-boppers. I'll even take it as far as wearing mom jeans and saying things like "she's so cool!" "what a talented young lady!" Don't think I won't.
I can't...
tell you the title of my autobiography, but just know that I have officially decided on one and it. is. brilliant.
I can't...
fathom the amount of shit I purchased offline in these past few days. I'm honestly halfway sick about it and hoping to the clothing gods that half the stuff I bought looks terrible when it arrives and I can return it and feel better about life. How twisted is that? "I bought this seemingly really cute jumper from ASOS and I so hope it looks ratchet as fuck on so I can get my money back!" I'm not sure what the sentiment says about me, and I'm not sure I want to know.
I can't...
believe my coffee maker just died on me this week. It just decided it was done - it was over it and wanted nothing more to do with me and my morning routine. It's like it woke up one day, said "No. Ya know what? No more. I'm tired. I'm old. I'm done making this bitch cups of crap. Good bye, cruel world!" But as so many do with dogs, I replaced it within a day or two. TAKE THAT, 4-CUP MR COFFEE!
I can't...
over something I experienced in real life over my Thanksgiving holiday. My sister and I are at a really nice, new, "I'm so pretty and fake wealthy" restaurant in the Dallas area, enjoying wine and old-fashions and being sisters. Finally, after waiting for a long time at the bar, we are seated directly next to a table of the biggest douche bags I have ever witnessed with my own eyes and ears - ever. Middle-aged, single, all in black, slick-backed hair, an overall palpable vibe of "DOUCHE." Of course, one immediately asked my sister and I if we were sisters, probably whilst envisioning us having a sexual sister experience together. Then, we overheard them speaking to the waitress. "Honey, you are in the presence of royalty. Oh, we're scaring her! Haha! Are we scaring you? Don't be scared, sweetheart." At this point, my sister's temper started to rise. She's not one for bullshit or, worse, douche bullshit. The last straw was when two of the gentlemen got up and bee-lined toward two new young women who had arrived at the bar and began chatting them up. They called out to their third friend who was still sitting at the table, "Dude! Come here!" The third retorted, "Why? It better be good if you're making me come over there!" This is a nice restaurant, y'all. Like very nice. Expensive. Not a place where you shout things from across the floor at one another. And, low and behold, these two probably really smart and classy women were convinced to come tack on to the men's party and pull chairs up to their table. "I can't eat a full meal like that - that's a full bird!" one girl playfully shouted. "Yeah? That's probably why you have that skin and she has those legs." My sister calmly stood up, told the hostess she wasn't paying to sit by raging douchebags, and wanted to move. The hostess was semi-slow, so I quickly suggested we just pick our plates up and go sit back at the bar. And we did. And I can't.
I can't...
with Kate Moss in the newest PlayBoy. OMG? Now, THAT'S how you get naked while remaining classy as hell. I love weiner as much as the next girl, and I can confidently say she looks stunning. Check out the beautiful photographs here - obvs NSFW (that's Not Safe For Work - it's okay. It took me a while to know that acronym, too).
I can't...
do you remember this song? Because I do and it's so legit:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uen-A9Yw67Y
I can't...
with men and sandals/flip-flops/anything that shows their toes. I'm sorry, I know it's shallow. I know it's ignorant. I know it's just silly thinking to some. But the thing is... it isn't any of those things. It's fact: men are less attractive and undesirable in anything toe-exposing. It doesn't fit, it doesn't work. During the summertime, I'd rather see you in vans and know full-well that your feet are probably sweating a lot then ever see even the very tip of your pinky toe. It's kind of how no one gets truly excited over seeing a weiner; unless it's super huge or super small, they all kinda look alike. I don't wanna see your feet. They're man feet, AKA not pedicured or well-kept. And if they ARE pedicured or well-kept, that's just as bad. So, you see, it's a lose-lose situation.
I can't...
understand how girls wear their hair down all the time, every day, every time they go out on the town, always. I mean I know how they can - because it's not curly. Curly hair is unruly - it has a mind of its own and it's not being dramatic when I say I never know what it's going to do when I wake up in the morning. It dictates everything in my daily life and I just bend over and take it. For girls with naturally straight/wavy hair, it's a no-brainer to wear their hair down. Duh. I wish I had that sometimes. I wish I knew it would always look good one way, no matter what. But that's not my life, so don't judge me if it's pulled back when I'm out and about on a Saturday night trying to look sexy - LOVE ME FOR ME.
I can't...
can't anymore today. I'm can'ted out. Can you believe it? Can't you? CAN YOU NOT?
xox,
emma
