If These (Male) Models Could Talk...

"Oh my God. Oh, GOD. Am I seriously doing this? Is this really happening? As if all my friends weren't giving me ENOUGH shit for trying to make it as a male model. Am I seriously posing in a belly shirt? I look like an Arizona Wildcats cheerleader. Okay, shhh, calm down, Greg, it's not that bad. Just...pick a spot on the wall and focus on it. Oh my God, when I go home for Christmas my brothers are NEVER GOING TO LET ME LIVE THIS DOWN. I feel faint. HOW AM I EVER GOING TO GET ANOTHER WOMAN TO SLEEP WITH ME AFTER THIS? You can see my BELLY BUTTON. Jesus, I understand now what it's like for all those poor objectified girls who have to pose in bikinis. When I get out of this hell-hole, I'm going to burn all my porn and subscribe to Ms. Magazine. Oh, GOD. I cannot believe this. I look like I borrowed this shirt from Paris Hilton's DOG. I look like a contestant in The Ultimate Coyote Ugly Search. I may pass out. Is that the floor? *THUD*"

"WHAT? What is your problem, dude? You think I look gay? You think THIS is gay? You wouldn't know gay if it stabbed you in the arm, BITCH. You ain't even SEEN gay. I will BRING THE GAY." "WHAT NOW, BITCH? Yeah, it's a V-NECK SHORTIE ROBE. You know who wears these? CLASSY LADY HOOKERS ON PARK AVENUE. And ME. I am representin' right now. Shit, man, I know you're jealous of my slender thighs and smooth chest. Who WOULDN'T be? Look at this hot-ass tat. LOOK AT THESE PUFFED SLEEVES, BITCH. ARE YOU LOOKING? I DON'T THINK YOU'RE LOOKING. YOU WANT I SHOULD CALL MY BOYZ?"

"Ah, bliss. Another day of just me and my manly, chiseled jaw out on the town. This espresso is simply exquisite. I think I will just let it linger here in front of my perfectly sized nostrils for a few moments to bring my nose to the highest level of olfactory ecstasy. My GOD, I'm smooth and handsome. My hair is like a buttered biscuit and even my cuticles scream with the passionate voice of l'amour. Oh, how flattered I was yesterday on the street when I passed that group of schoolchildren and they ran away screaming "THEY'VE COME TO LIFE! THE MANNEQUINS HAVE COME TO LIFE! SOMEBODY HELP!" Is there any higher earthly praise? I think not. Good Lord above, I'm jawdropping. As soon as I finish this coffee, I shall go buy a quill and some ink- my love for myself is the sort which must be forever preserved in the eternal beauty of a sonnet."

"MY HANDS WEREN'T IN MY PANTS. Jesus. The world is so cruel to me, you know? Just because I occasionally like to lug dead bodies to alleyways and stick them in dumpsters doesn't make me some kind of MENACE TO SOCIETY. What was it that cop was muttering about when she was stuffing me in the backseat of the squad car? Something about "Makes Kevin Federline look like Humphrey Bogart...pathetic pube 'stache...poor man's B.J. Novak..." blah blah blah. Them bitches, they never shut up, do they? Jesus, I wish this stupid mug shot was over with already. How the hell am I going to duck out of jail time? I KNOW! I'll win over the jury with my MUSICAL TALENTS." "I feel pretty! Oh, so pretty! I feel pretty, and witty, and briiight...and I pity, any convicted-felon-facing-five-to-ten-years-with-possible-time-off-for-good-behavior who isn't me toniiight!"

"DUUUUUUDE! Whazzap, my brotha? It has been TOOO LONG, man. TOOO LONG. Yeah, nothing's new with me; just, you know, playin' the FIELD, my man. I got the hos lined UP for a taste, know what I'm saying? Yeah, man, I got this sweet-ass gig at my dad's law firm, you know how I roll...drivin' the BMW, smoking up and getting WASTED, just like in college. Yeah, man, those were crazy-ass times.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHO IS THIS? HAHAHAHAHAHA!
IT'S JARED, MAN! We were FRAT BROTHAZ at Duke! C'mon, man! What the hell? We hung out ALL THE TIME, man! Hittin' the TIZZOWN, BAMF-style!
What do you mean, you HAVE TO GO?
Oh, okay, what's that you say, you're in a tunnel? Yeah, man, tunnels can lick my...
HELLO?
Okay, man, catch up with ya later, then. PEACE, HOMEZ."

"Oh, my, look what's happened. Somehow, inadvertently, I seem to have wandered out into the garden in only my tight-fitting, ass-hugging board shorts. What a terrible coincidence! Well, I guess since I'm out here and all, we might as well admire my splendid areolae. Those things are GOOD. I mean, come on. Look at the PECS. Suck it, DAVID. Yeah, I wonder which one of us is more ripped? Hey, let's ask the audience. GUESS WHAT, DAVID, IT'S ME. YOU GONNA CRY ABOUT IT? Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an Abercrombie ad to shoot and then I have some fat girls to ignore at the mall. Time is money, Dave."

"Hi, ladies. My name is Mario. I drive a monster Harley and I like steak dinners and pomade. I'm looking for a lady with a refined taste in dudes, who loves romantic candlelight beach dinners and hardcore S+M. This shirt right here? One of my favorites. I think it says that I'm a caring and sensitive individual who likes women in bunny ears with huge breasts. What's that you say? You want a closer look at the goods? It's okay, all the girls do. You like? Of course you do, you are only human. My role models are Hugh Hefner, Fonzie and, of course, that dude who made the sex tape with Paris Hilton. Mad props. My forearms are sinewy, my cheekbones are pronounced and I can go all night. So call 1800-HUNK to talk to me now! Big girls need not apply. Actually, scratch that. I like a whole 'lotta woman."

"Sigh. Jesus, I'm so tired right now. I was out all night last night doing hipster stuff- you know, shoplifting skinny jeans, leaning against chain-link fences in headscarves waiting for my picture to be taken, graffiti-ing obscure references from every poorly reviewed art-house classic ever made all over town, all that sort of thing. This isn't even my shirt, is it? This shirt belongs to some chick. Some chick left this at my house and then I put it on and came here. At least my chest hair is nice and patchy, like an enchanted forest of hipsterdom. Oh my God, how much longer am I going to have to stand here? I have to go to lunch with Cory Kennedy in an hour. We're having a competition to see who can go the longest without bathing. She's totally beating the pants off me. It's embarassing. Watch it, Kennedy. I will take you OUT. I just have to finish up here first. Okay, I guess I should grimace in barely contained agony at some point. Maybe I'll land a cologne account. That could be kind of sweet, if it was, like, a super-ironic cologne account. Irony is the new dreadlocks. I love cocaine. Somebody call Cory, tell her I'm going to be late."

"Oh, YEAH! I am looking FLY. Future MBAs of America, in the hizzy! This sweatervest is pimp. In fact, I think this whole Brooks Brothers spit-shined thing is completely working. I am going to out-Duck-Duck-Goose the other kids to the millionth factor. I fully expect to take over the family company by sixth grade, at the latest. I am going to divide and conquer with this new look. If I play my cards right this year in the third grade, this could be my future. God, if only."

And now, for a new feature I like to call- Heh! As in, "Heh! That's incredibly odd/amusing/thought-provoking. I can't believe that exists. Wacky!". Or, "Heh! That guy in the apartment across from mine is wearing a lampshade on his head! Oh, those drunken neighbors and their hijinks...Wait...wait...now he's climbing on top of his kitchen table and performing a choreographed dance routine to "It's Not Right But It's Okay." Oh. Oh, dear. I should not have seen that."
Or, you know, something normal. Wherever your mind happens to go when you hear the word "Heh!"
Without further ado, I present to you this week's Heh.Yes. That is correct. Your eyes do not deceive you. It is a gigantic crocheted hamburger dress. All I know is, somewhere out there the Hamburglar is totally aroused and doesn't know why.

THE MOVIE, MUSIC, TV & BOOK CORNER- So, I think it's been pretty well affirmed that a) I am a snob and b) I have innate bad taste in almost everything, which I usually manage to suppress in polite company. Therefore, it is a secret I will be taking to my grave (and sharing with, er, everyone who reads this blog) that I sometimes (often) listen to the song "Chelsea" by Stefy in my room and bob my head poetically (dance like a wild biscuit). Listen, it is the most atrocious song ever. Case in point- it was apparently used in the movie John Tucker Must Die, which looked so bad and embarrassing to all parties involved that I didn't even see it. Still, I don't know what it is. Maybe when we were all Early Humans we did instinctual Rain Dances in packs or whatever and now whenever we hear a certain beat, no matter how atrocious the song is, we must dance. All I'm saying is that if you listen to this song, you will be Lost In The Catchiness. You have been warned.
All right, just so you don't all completely disown me for Lack Of Taste, I've also been listening to Regina Spektor's "Braille." Somebody (and I've been reading back through old posts trying to figure out who for the last three hours, but I CANNOT FIND THE COMMENT AND IT IS DRIVING ME BONKERS) once commented here asking me what my favorite Regina Spektor song is. It fluctuates constantly, but right now it's Braille (and you have no idea how long I've been waiting for someone to ask me that). It kind of gives me shivers. Thanks for asking, Anonymous Amazing Person!
Movie-wise...Jesus. I don't actually think I can handle the Sex and the City movie. I, like every other double-X-chromosome in the universe, have seen every episode of SATC, but that doesn't mean I don't want to hurt Carrie Bradshaw. I'm not going to say anything about how she looks like a foot, because I think Sarah Jessica Parker is probably a nice lady. But I hate Carrie too much to pay eleven dollars to look at her for two hours.
Get ready for me slinking back and admitting that I saw it two months from now. But for now, the official party line is "I Don't Want To See It, Ever."
Book-wise, I have two papers due this week and and a test to study for, so naturally I've been doing a lot of Reading For Pleasure. I just finished Memoirs of a Geisha, which was fantastic, and now I am secretly allowing myself to work backwards through the Harry Potter books because I can't sleep and God this is so totally embarrassing. Wow, I...I am saying a lot of things.
As another part of my Master Study Plan, I've been spending a lot of time on the "Are You That Person Who Bugs Everyone With 30 Rock Quotes?" thread over at TWoP. And, yeah, I am that person.
It's after six, what am I, a farmer?

SIGHTINGS- Well, like every other good American in the world, I was watching Gossip Girl, sighing over Rufus Humphrey (the always-awesome Molly just mentioned on her blog that he is, as the kids say, super-majorly-extremely-finger-lickin'-good-hot. Well, I think she used more normal words. But...word, Molly) the other week and trying to figure out the best way to silence Dan (SHUT UP, Dan. I don't find you cute, like, at all. You're even worse than Chuck "Large-Mouth" Bass and Nate "I'm A Pretty Little Girl" Archibald, because if you at least squint really hard they're attractive(ish) and Chuck is hilarious. You? You're just ANNOYING. Why don't you just take your "AWESOME" friend VANESSA and go sublet a loft in AWESOME-OPOLIS?) when I noticed that the dress our girl Blair was trotting around in was none other than the bitchin' Marc Jacobs I professed my love for here just a few short months ago. You know. This one. You see, I am like a prophet for our modern times. Perhaps I should invest in some stone tablets. And a beard. Yes, a beard.
I also saw a woman on the subway with the most intense weave I've ever seen in my life. I'm mentioning it here because I feel I need to transcribe it so that I Never Forget. It was half strawberry-pink, half bleach-blonde, with dark roots. It curled slightly at the temples, then graduated into a stick-straight thing down to the ends. It was...kind of magnificent, to be honest. I can't even do it justice within the confines of the written word. I would need to do a watercolor of it or something.
Oh, and to the four-hundred-odd people trawling New York City clad in Ugg boots? Look, I get it, I do. I've been kind of sort of maybe wearing my own fleecy fuzzy sheep-y wonderfully warm pair lately too, because they feel like a kind gentle hug for my feet and they are pretty much the embodiment of all that is good and true and I LOVE THEM, OKAY? GOD, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED TO HEAR? I AM OFFICIALLY COMING OUT AS AN UGG-WEARER. I LOVE MY DEAD GAY UGGS.
However.
If you are wearing special studded/adorned Uggs, I will scoff at you. I'm sorry, I have to. I'm having enough trouble dealing with colored Uggs right now. Look, Uggs are supposed to be a necessary evil, like tax-paying. You don't DRESS THEM UP with jewels and studs. It's like if you had an extra alien head sprouting out of your stomach. Maybe you wouldn't want to remove the head, because let's say the head is really comfortable and keeps you warm in horrible Arctic polar bear conditions or something. But you don't need to go sticking, say, a hat and a bunch of pearls on the head. Just...leave it be.
Do you all see my point? Let's recap.

SATAN.

Current Attire- Jeans, cute navy three-quarter-length-sleeve top, funky dangly necklace and my sparkly shoes. This is legitimately one of my favorite outfits ever. I also have my big purple Uniqlo jacket to top it all off with. It makes me look like a grape/Teletubby hybrid, and I love it.

My next post will probably involve all the things I'm craving for Christmas, like these

Mary Green underpants. God, so pretty!

Auf Wiedersehen, lovely readers.