Category Archives: Rants & Rages

THE WORLD IS ENDING — What Will You Wear?

This post is neither sponsored by nor affiliated with Madewell or The Fabulous Report. But check out both, I am sure they have great outfits.

Good morning, everyone!

So we understand the world is currently ending, and that can be a super stressful way to start the week.

But like, let’s think about how we could use this to our advantage! People are on their phones more than ever these days, searching for the latest hashtag that will tell them which tampons to boycott and what app is on the right side of history. How could we enter that conversation?

Thought starters for social posts:

America might be over, but our Spring collection is only just beginning.

Get yourself retweeted (wearing our brand new Protest Pant!)

When everything goes up in flames, make sure you look smokin’.

We totally get that you’re feeling anxious and losing sleep and like don’t even know what to do bc the world is a tragic mess rn but the thing is — the slip dress! You guys it’s so cute. It’s great for layering, whether you wear a graphic tee underneath or a slouchy sweater over it for that thrown-together, oh-so-effortless blogger look!

Gina, we know you asked about having fashion lover, wifey, and mama to two littles, @BombshellBecca wear our Spring line to the next protest, but she said, and I quote, “These pants don’t make my butt cheeks pop,” so we might have to move on from that. But it’s okay guys, this is where your creativity comes in! You’ve. Got. This.

Even though like you can barely string two sentences together because you have End of The World A.D.D. and you are texting friends about how you could do something that matters, and anytime you look at your phone there’s another horrifying news story, and every day you wake up it is not in fact a bad dream, and every joke you want to tell now feels petty — no — irresponsible, and how will you ever think about or write about anything else? And how, could you somehow fashion a time machine and maybe kidnap a few people for the sake of the greater good?

It’s a lot, but we know you’ll power through. Know why? Because we are women. And when we march for unity, only half of us are able to find some reason why it was actually a hugely controversial, terribly destructive, anti-feminine idea.

Now let’s sell some handbags!




The Exact Emotional and Monetary Cost of a Good Pair of Jeans

It all started with a little Facebook post.

I take it back — it started with a year of semi-consistently complaining to my husband that I didn’t own a good pair of jeans, then him encouraging me to just buy a pair I loved, who cared how much they cost! And then also maybe we can stop talking about it?

And so I turned to Facebook to ask my ladies where they bought their favorite jeans. The response was overwhelming! Clearly I was not alone in this struggle.

Some said to go to Nordstrom or Bloomingdales and the right pair would “find me”, some said Nordstrom Rack, a lot of people said Madewell was the place to go.

I took their advice to heart and have spent the last two plus months trying to find the pair of jeans that will transform me into Charlize Theron. What follows is a detailed account of this unexpectedly arduous process.

Week following Facebook post:

-Contemplate the advice I’ve received and make some key decisions:

-Realize I have only ever felt intimidated in Bloomingdales. I don’t know if I can face my cellulite in those Nordstrom 3-way mirrors. Both are pricey, and why fall in love with something I can’t afford? I strike them from my list.

-Nordstrom Rack seems like the same options but for less — I decide I will go there.

-Madewell seems specialty enough that I am potentially okay spending more to get something better, if it can live up to the hype. I will brave the Madewell denim bar.  


Thursday, September 1st:

-Go to Nordstrom Rack. Am immediately overwhelmed.

-Gather a pile of jeans heavier than anything I’ve ever picked up at the gym, making sure to get the recommended brands — but how can I be sure I found all the options when I am surrounded by 17 rounds of denim?? What if my magical pair is buried somewhere, mislabled?!

-Try on 18 pairs. Go through the slow process of elimination by making a yes, maybe, and no pile.

-Whittle it down to Joe’s, which are indeed the most comfortable things ever, and cost $80, which seems respectable enough. The problem is I have to decide between a smaller size, which fits my legs, and a bigger size which fits my waist. Story of my life.


Body shape has been exaggerated for emphasis, but you get the point.

-Decide I am an adult, and can no longer respect myself if I continue to live life with my top button undone. Buy the bigger size.

-Take them home, try them on with all my shoes. Only then do I realize they’re not cute. How did this happen? I don’t understand. I wear them all day anyway because they feel like freaking pajama pants.

Friday, September 2nd:

-Try the Joe’s on again. Am frustrated they didn’t become cute while I was sleeping.

-Wonder if I am to the point where I care more about comfort than style. Who do I have to impress anymore, I sit home most Friday nights! But I know in my heart I’m not there yet, and it makes me both happy and sad.

(September 3-4th I spend regaining courage)

Monday, September 5th:

-Hear Madewell is having a Labor Day sale. Text my friend who we’ll call Meg to see if she wants to go. We go, with her adorable 1-year-old son who will never have to experience what we’re about to.

-The Madewell Gals look trendy as ever in their ponchos and vests. They prowl along the line of jeans, asking if they can get me anything. I repeat what I’ve been told by my FACEBOOK LADIES WHERE U AT, maybe I’ll try some 9″ skinnies? They tell me this is a great choice.

-One asks if I want to try the “skinny boyfriend.” I know I should say no to any variation of boyfriend, but in spite of myself I ask her what they’re like. She walks out from behind the denim bar to show me she is wearing them. Those are weird, I think. “Those look cute!” I say. I’m not lying, not intentionally at least. They do look cute in the way that my brain knows they are trendy, they just don’t look very cute to my eyeballs. “They run a few sizes small,” she says, which is enough for me to agree to try them on.

-Meg and I enter our “dressing room,” which is more like a poolside cabana whose curtains are never quite closed. We try all different styles. We try the same styles in different washes, which somehow all fit differently?

-We find that the same two pairs look COMPLETELY different on us and the Traveling Pants were either extremely magical or it’s all a total sham. I can’t let myself believe it’s a sham, as I am still in love with Kostos.

Quatre filles et un jean The sisterhood of traveling pants 2005 Real : Ken Kwapis Michael Rady COLLECTION CHRISTOPHEL

My heart actually fluttered while picking this image.

Meg and I recall a time years ago when we went bra shopping together at Victoria’s Secret in an especially dark period of singlehood. We each picked out the most expensive, bejeweled contraption of a bra we could find, and in a beautiful moment, discovered we fit into the same size! You would not guess by looking that she and I could fit into the same size bra. This renews my hope that the Traveling Pants are possible, and we continue.


Which sister are you?

-The boyfriend jeans throw me off. They are sort of actually cute? Or perhaps just so comfortable that I am fooled. They are so comfortable…I could pull these off…okay no, SNAP OUT OF IT. I am not a Madewell girl, I’m not ready for this level of trend.

-Find that my favorite pair is grey. This is a problem because I have come here for JEANS. Jeans are not supposed to be gray. Meg’s favorite pair is denim, torn at the knees, and fit her great.

-Am really starting to like the gray jeans and it’s making me sweat because they cost over one hundred dollars. Suddenly I remember the $50 Visa gift card I won at work that’s sitting on my dresser at home. I fall to my knees and wail “NOOOOOO!” because that could have made this purchase somewhat palatable.

-Grab a blouse to try on with my 2nd favorite pair of jeans. It’s the cutest thing in the world, and suddenly I am this girl:


I’m not wearing this outfit, but I am her in spirit you know? I have her essence.


-Decide I will get the blue denim. I probably also have to get the shirt too, until I look at the tag– it’s $80. I put it down, gently, as my heart rips in two.

-Meg texts her husband to forewarn him about the upcoming credit card charge, just so he doesn’t think it got stolen. I cringe imagining the trying-to-be-supportive-but-still-confused look on Scott’s face when he sees how much mine cost. We lament having not spent all our money on clothes while single, are uneasy with this strange new guilt.

-We part ways, a little giddy, a little dazed at having spent $128 dollars before tax on jeans. I go home and try them on with all my shoes. They look great. Phew!


Tuesday, September 6th:

-Wake in a panic, knowing I’ve made a mistake. I was supposed to get the gray ones! I liked them best, they fit me best, and who needs “blue jeans” anyway?

-I blitz to Madewell, gift card in hand. I walk in, grab the pants, but the salesgirl (thankfully different from yesterday) asks if I need any help. I tell her no, I just want to try on one pair real quick. She asks if I’ve tried the Skinny Boyfriend Jeans. I decline politely, but while trying on my grey pair she appears outside the curtain, saying she brought the boyfriend pair “just in case.” I agree to try them on because I am spineless.

-She brings me a pair of white Puma sneakers to try on with the boyfriend jeans, and she’s right — it’s so cute. It’s so cute and new! I love it! But I can’t buy sneakers AND jeans, and without the sneakers the jeans are not. I try to tell her that skinny is the cut for me, to which she responds she recently read an article in Refinery 29 about how skinny jeans are expected and boring now.

-Presented with these facts, I suppose maybe I just need to try them on at home. I buy the damn boyfriend jeans, and the grey jeans, making sure to secure the receipt.


Wednesday, September 7th:

-I, a 28-year-old woman, put on music while home alone and try on all the jeans with all my shoes.

Saturday, September 10th:

-Have a brilliant idea to do my fashion show for Scott. He says kind but unhelpful things like, “I think they all look good on you — just keep them all!” I appreciate his support but cannot allow it.

-Briefly yearn for female roommates.

-Make the mistake of also trying on all my Zara jeans. I’m struck by their cuteness and the fact that they cost 1/3 of the price.

-Exclaim, “I HATE CLOTHES!” from the bedroom, loud enough to make sure Scott and The Universe can hear me.

-Go to text all my friends pictures asking for their opinions. Realize the only ones I event took a photo of were the boyfriend jeans. Is it a sign? 


They’re cute. They are, aren’t they? Don’t tell me I don’t want to know.


-Long to live in a world where we all wear tunics. Give me a nice, shapeless bag of burlap, I will wear it every day and never complain about life in District 12!


Sunday, September 12th:

Have a moment of clarity where I realize that to be stylish you must invest a significant amount of either a) time or b) money. My behavior has demonstrated that I am willing to invest neither of these, which means I deserve clothing from Zara and Forever 21.

No mere mortal can resist.

Monday, September 13th:

-Wake, serenely, and put on the grey pants. They feel right. They’re not perfect, but no one is, and expecting perfection is not realistic. I’ve been through so much here, I would like to have something to show for it. This is a commitment, and I must choose to be committed each day. I choose the grey pants. I take everything else back.

Sunday, October 2nd:

I see a group of girlfriends, many who commented on my Facebook post. They ask excitedly, are those the new jeans?! They’re so cute! I have to tell them no, these are from Zara, $40.

Tuesday, October 18th:

I wear the grey jeans publicly but the tags are still on. I catch a reflection of myself and must admit they are one fine pair of pants, but see they still tug just so around my tweedle dee tummy.

Thursday, October 20th:

I take them back and get a size bigger. They are comfortable, they are almost as cute as the smaller size, I am taking steps towards maturity.

Today, October 28th:

Find myself looking at the photo of the Skinny Boyfriend Jeans.

I will probably go to Zara next time.

On Valet Parking and Shattered Dreams

I grew up in Suburbia where there are these things called parking lots.

Most of my knowledge about valet parking came from Clueless where Cher is like, “Why learn to park? Everywhere you go has valet!” Cher had perfect hair and that amazing contraption in her closet, so to my young mind, valet parking seemed very sexy and cosmopolitan.


Who remembers this thing? I still want it. 

Now I live in Los Angeles, kind of close to where Cher lived, and I get my car valeted every day. But sadly it is not because I’m spending my days shopping in Beverly Hills, no, it’s just that my office building doesn’t have a big enough parking structure to accommodate all its employees.

At first I felt all fancy getting out of my car, handing my keys to a stranger, and walking away without a glance, but I quickly learned that I was very wrong and there is nothing fancy about it AT ALL.

It’s more like I’m playing a game of hide and seek in a 6-floor parking structure.

See after I hand off my car I am at the mercy of the valet dudes, who take off at 5 PM and leave all our keys at the front desk. They unintelligibly scribble the location of your car onto a ticket, and you must use their hieroglyphics to find it.

Here is my ticket from last night:


So it’s on the roof, I can see that.

Can’t tell what row. Some sort of side.

And the stall? Ah, looks like it’s in wallnut. WHAT IS THE WALLNUT STALL? WHAT CAN IT MEAN? ALSO IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE WALNUT!

I find myself in the elevator with a guy from work who is suffering the same plight.

“Agh, can you read this?” He shows me his ticket.

“I think it’s a 5. Or an S? Or wait, maybe it’s a P.”

We reach my floor so I step out and offer a grim, “good luck.” We live in fear of this every day of our lives.

One day the handwriting on my ticket was so unreadable I threw the useless thing away and resorted to blindly pointing my car clicker and listening for a honk. On the fifth floor, I heard it! Above me?

I bounded up to the sixth floor. Clicked my clicker. Heard a honk. Didn’t see my car.

I went back to the fifth floor. Repeated the process. No dice.

After trying multiple floors with no success, I finally went back to the top and started walking the entire structure, blindly clicking my clicker every few seconds like an idiot, positive that someone somewhere was watching me and laughing. A poor, disillusioned Angeleno, cursing the writers of Clueless.

Eventually I found my car on the second floor, just a short thirty minutes after I started looking. Ugh.

I get it, first world problems, whatever, but it’s just like, can this be the best system? Could we not figure something else out in the year 2015? Maybe some sort of GPS thing, or a mobile app, or even a simple, legible text message?

Better yet, can I just park my own car?

I will give up all my dreams of being Cher.

I will give up the perfect hair and the closet contraption. I will even get down on the asphalt in my Alaia, if you just tell me I never have to valet park again.

Screen Shot 2016-01-31 at 10.08.22 PM


You’re All Stupid Idiots

The internet has gone a little insane lately. I have clicked and watched and read in fascination through Baltimore, Caitlyn Jenner, Charleston, and the ruling on same-sex marriage, to name a controversial few.

It has made me feel schizophrenic.

See, I grew up in a conservative Mormon family in conservative Mormon Utah, where I thought the only source of news was Fox news and the word “Democrat” was usually spoken in whispers. Then I moved to liberal Los Angeles to work in liberal Advertising, where celebrities host parties for the President of the United States and virtually every time a Republican is mentioned it is with mockery and disdain.

My Facebook feed has come to be bipolar, and over the last few months as I have scrolled through it I have been shocked at the passion and vitriol coming from both sides of my friend group. I have read many articles and comment sections and nearly lost hope for the human race.

Instead of jumping onto my own digital soapbox, I have been trying to instead absorb. I have read a lot of articles and a lot of Facebook threads, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to post on either side of any of the issues, because you know what? My feelings on most of them are a lot more complicated than I can express in a Facebook status.

It’s so strange to me the way we now consume news. It’s like this repeating cycle where:

a) something happens

b) we all pick sides

c) we post which side we’re on

d) we tell everyone on the other side that they are stupid idiots.

What if I empathize with both sides? What if I have friends who are gay and family who are Mormon? What if I like capitalism but hate guns? What if I think there is more to virtually every one of these stories than I can understand or post about on social media?

It’s like we’ve lost our freedom of speech, or at least the freedom to speak without being internet-hated. I have a gay friend who once confessed to having voted for John McCain. I was shocked.

“Wait, seriously? I didn’t even vote for John McCain!”

“I know. Don’t tell anyone.”

We were laughing about it, but still I find it ridiculous! An openly gay closet Republican.

In college, I took a lot of English classes, where we studied literature and poetry and short stories. The things we read were complex and contradictory and they made you stop and think about family relationships and human nature and social behavior. They were complex and contradictory because that is what it is to be a human.

Then I began working in advertising where the goal is to distill an entire brand message into a single tagline—a phrase, or a sentence, sometimes as simple as two or three words. Everything is boiled down to one simple idea, so that people know exactly what they’re getting. And you know what? It works. In fact it’s the only way it works. One tagline. One message. Find a niche. BUY NOW.

But the things that are happening in the news are not products. They are people. Real, complicated people, and yet we are trying to tell their stories in 140 characters or less?

I know there are many in-depth articles and interviews being shared on each issue, and I have read or watched a lot of them over the last few months. But it scares me that the more common pattern seems to be “read the headline and move on to the next.” We’ve seen it in advertising, where now instead of long form content, everything has to be “bite-sized” or “snackable.” I mean, I’m guilty of it myself—why go to CNN when my Facebook page now has a “news” section? We’re over-cluttering our brains and shortening our attention spans.

I feel like it has become a nationwide game of telephone, where news stories are being transmitted via BuzzFeed headline or Tweet or Facebook status, each side putting their own spin on it, until an issue that is complicated and nuanced becomes packaged into two distinct messages: my side versus yours.




We seem to have lost the grey area, and it scares me.

Because no issue is as simple as black and white. No issue is even as simple as rainbow.

I don’t know what the solution is, and I recognize that I probably sound like a naïve little girl asking, “cant’ we all just get along?” I am aware that there comes a time when people have to pick sides. Where they literally have to vote, in a Supreme Court, and the outcome of that vote will affect millions of people.

I just feel that the complexity of what’s happening in the world deserves more than a snarky Facebook status or a biting response. I wish there were more forums in which we could calmly and kindly discuss what is going on, and who knows, maybe come to some more inclusive solutions, or at least come to peacefully agree to disagree. I wish it was more okay to be in the middle, that you could take a minute to figure out your feelings, that you didn’t have to pick one of two very polarizing sides.

I suppose I do wish we could all just get along. Find some middle ground. And for that, I will be accused of preaching moral relativism.

Guess I’m just a stupid idiot!

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I have a disease and I would like to talk about it.

Scott diagnosed me.

“I think maybe the reason you feel frustrated is because you want everything.”

“What? No I don’t!!”

“Hey, it’s not a bad thing! It’s just…who you are.”

I took a moment to take a mental scan of my life. Bleh.

“Okay fine. I want everything. But when you set out to get everything, you end up with more than you would have if you’d only aimed for a few things, right?!”

He kissed me and told me I was perfect, and no doubt geared up to watch me continue to ruin my life.


I want everything. All the things.

Mostly, I want to write. It is a curse that I would not wish on my worst enemy.

I want to write so badly that last year, I quit my job to write a novel. I had told myself it was crazy and stupid and ridiculous, for YEARS I told myself that. But the pesky little idea had incepted itself so deeply into my brain that I physically could not ignore it anymore.

And so I quit my stable-ish, well-paying, job with benefits, and I started writing a terrible novel.

Upon realizing how terrible it was, I took a break to go back to advertising. I got brought in for a project on an amazing product launch that I can’t exactly talk about but that has the potential to be amazing!!

And then the reality set in that even though it’s an amazing product, it’s still advertising and there are clients and lawyers and no you can’t say that. But yes we will work nights and weekends away from our families and brand new husbands because PEOPLE NEED THIS PRODUCT.

And so,* upon craving a career that would be fulfilling and uplifting and create real change in the world, I decided to get certified to teach yoga…in the midst of this product launch. And it is INTENSE, this yoga training, and there is homework, (okay it’s called OMwork), and today as I was practice teaching the sequence on my commute, I got so absorbed in it that I found myself in Long Beach. I don’t work in Long Beach.

I have lost my mind. I have horcruxed my energy into so many directions that I CAN’T EVEN DRIVE.

Why do I do this?? I would truly give anything to be content with going to one job, coming home, and watching TV on my couch. I would give anything to be content with just being. Instead I keep on biting, and being less and less able to chew.

But see, the problem is that I don’t just want all the things, I LOVE all the things! I feel this out-of-body passion motivating me towards each one of them.

I want to make amazing commercials.

I want to write a non-terrible novel.

I want to make people sweat and help them see their bodies get stronger.

I want to help you understand what it is to be Mormon and create a normal place where we can talk about it.

I want all of the things, and I can’t have them.



*Somewhere in the midst of this I planned a wedding


Why I hate your fashion blog

A while back at work we were pitching a fashion brand. As research, I had to look at a bijillion fashion blogs.

One day while scrolling through a majorly famous one, I found this post about eyebrow filling. I though, wait a sec…I have to fill my eyebrows? Before this moment, I genuinely didn’t know they had holes! I scanned through the post until I got to the before and after pictures. I studied them closely, and for the life of me could not tell the difference.

The eyebrow holes were just the beginning. As I continued clicking through blog after blog, I started to feel strangely. All these emotions welled up inside me that were familiar in a sickening sort of way. It wasn’t until Kim looked over my shoulder at the wavy-haired, perfectly styled twig on my screen and said, “Ugh. Hate her.” that I realized…

I think I hate this girl.

Wait what? Why in the world would I hate this girl?

I laughingly shared the experience with another friend, one who I consider low-maintenance and level-headed,  in hopes of catharsis. But my confession only led to us looking at the same blog together, and five minutes later we were in up to our elbows, “reading” some post in which the blogger had taken a six-week European vacation for no other apparent purpose than to have someone take pictures of her looking perfect, but in a Europey kind of way. We said things like,

“Okay, but she has to have an eating disorder.”

“I mean, where can she be going in all these outfits?”

and (I’m the worst)

“I want to cut off her hair while she’s sleeping and glue it onto my head.”

You probably think we were just jealous. And you’re dead right.

A fashion blog made me feel jealous rage.

I mean, I seriously lost my mind! All I wanted was to figure out how I could become her. I wanted her twiggy legs and her dad’s credit card. I wanted to make a bunch of money off of my blog (why didn’t anyone tell me blogging about Mormonism doesn’t pay?!) 

But I didn’t want any of that before I looked at her blog.

A lot has been said about the evils of advertising–how it makes people dissatisfied with their lives because it urges them to seek happiness in places they’ll never find it. And as someone who works in it, I have struggled at times with the ethics of what I do. But to me, fashion blogging takes it to a whole new level. Because she’s supposedly a REAL girl! And if she can take a walk through her neighborhood looking like she does, what I am I doing walking anywhere?

Fashion blogs, with all their appearance of reality, have set a standard that is completely unrealistic. And yet they’re so fun to look at, and the outfits are so lovely. So we all keep looking, spending hours every week setting our minds on a bar that can never be met.

Talk about life dissatisfaction.

My reaction to severe fashion blog exposure was frustrating. Because I am a girl who likes girls. I am not jealous or catty, and while I know you won’t believe me when I tell you this, I like seriously hate drama. In fact, over my many years of singlehood, I have made a weird habit of going to parties and coming home more often with a girl’s phone number than a guy’s. (Not a productive dating technique, it turns out) 

Anyway, all this is to say that I am not accustomed to feeling the way I did while spending weeks looking at fashion blogs. I felt dislike, contempt, jealousy, and bitterness. They are ugly ways to feel.

Please don’t think I’m saying that I hate fashion bloggers themselves. I don’t know anything about them personally, and let’s be honest if I met one at a party I’d probably go home with her phone number. But when I look at their blogs I feel hate, whether it’s hating her for having clothes I can’t afford or hating myself for not looking like her.

Fashion is fun, and I think we’re all allotted a healthy dose of materialism (I certainly am not immune to Zara.) Perhaps I am alone in my fashion-blog-induced jealousy, but I’ve recognized what it does to me personally, and for my own happiness I have to stay away from it.

The fact of the matter is, I’m just a normal girl. My outfits are sometimes stylish but mostly t shirts and jeans. I hope it can always be okay to look like a normal girl. A real girl.

A normal, real girl who now fills in her eyebrows.


Dealing with Dumb-Blonde-ization

Recently I found myself in a conversation with an elderly stranger. After noticing my vacant ring finger, he ask every single girl’s favorite question:

“So, why aren’t you married?”

I sat there for a moment, waiting for him to gather from the look on my face that he should slowly retreat. He then went on to break the silence by finishing his statement:

“I mean, you don’t seem super career-oriented or anything.”

! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Confusion! Shock! Anger!

I started to stammer defensively that actually I AM quite career oriented, but then remembered that I am currently unemployed but that’s not because I’m stupid I’m just in a weird phase of life and it’s complicated to be a millennial and I don’t really know…? 

Luckily he changed the subject and we moved on. But in the days following this incident, I have considered what would motivate this man to have said such a thing. I’ve wondered, do I talk like a Californian now? Do I have a dumb face??

And then one day I was looking through my emojis, and I realized what it was.

Blonde Emoji

I believe I was a victim of dumb-blonde-ization.

I know there have been a handful of less-intelligent blondes in our time, but I feel personally affronted by the fact that this is the ONLY blonde in Emoji’s entire collection. I mean, the crown, really? Is the crown necessary? I am forced to represent myself with a Princess, who I might point out has definitely never had to worry about her career.

And just look at all the options they’ve given brunettes! 

They can put their arms over their head.

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They can put their arms in an X.

Screen Shot 2014-05-13 at 5.55.10 PM

They can froof their hair,

Screen Shot 2014-05-13 at 5.55.24 PM

or raise their hand to share an intelligent comment.

Screen Shot 2014-05-13 at 5.55.51 PMThey can do high maintenance things like get massages,

Screen Shot 2014-05-13 at 5.56.05 PMor get their hair cut,

Screen Shot 2014-05-13 at 5.56.17 PM

and no one will make them wear a crown for it.

They are allowed a range of emotions like “slightly shocked”

Screen Shot 2014-05-13 at 5.56.29 PM

or “kinda sad.”

Screen Shot 2014-05-13 at 5.56.38 PM

But the most hurtful one of all is this:

Screen Shot 2014-05-13 at 5.56.49 PMAccording to Emoji,  the brunettes are the only ones allowed to get married.

Screen Shot 2014-05-14 at 10.15.01 AM

I want it known that I tried once to be a brunette. I wanted so badly to join their ranks. But it was a very sad year in which I looked very terrible, because some people are not lucky enough to look good as a brunette.

And so I am doomed to a life of single blondeness, where I must wear a metaphoric crown and be labeled by strangers as un-career-oriented.

I guess I’ll just go dance out my sorrows with my friends.

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**In case anyone is confused, this post is me being sarcastic. I feel the need to say this because sometimes you guys get offended and write me long comments about it. Please stop doing that 🙂