Brit’s New Single!

OMG you guys. OMG. Have you heard Britney Spears’ new jam? SO hip! SO fly! SO catchy! I can’t wait to go to the clubz and dance my jeggings off to this one. If you haven’t checked it out already, I suggest you do so immediately. OR ELSE. Tee-hee. Just kidding. NOT!

I love Brit-Brit. (For best results, read the lyrics while listening here.)

Call Me a Creeper
Hey, over there
Please forgive me
If I’m comin’ on too strong
Hate to stare
But you’re winnin’
Jail won’t hold me for long
So come here, a little closer
Wanna whisper in your ear
Make it clear, little question
Wanna know just how you feel
If I said my heart was beating loud
If I could escape this cell somehow
If I said I want your body now
Would you call me a creeper?
‘Cause you feel like paradise
And I need a probation tonight
So if I said I want your body now
Would you call me a creeper?
Hey, you might think
That I’m crazy
But I know I’m just your type
I might be
Little hazy
But you just cannot deny
There’s a spark
In between us
When I peer beneath your door
I want more
Wanna see it
So I’m asking you tonight
If I said I want your body, would you call me a creeper?
Gimme something good
Don’t wanna wait, I want it now (na-na-na-now)
I’m misunderstood
My lawyer wants to get me out (ou-ou-ou-out)
If I said my heart was beating loud–
If I said I want your body now–

Kate & Johnny: A Retrospective

Every now and then I’m going through life and then all of a sudden I remember: KATE MOSS AND JOHNNY DEPP USED TO DATE!!! ?????? !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHH!

It gets me every time. I mean, what a beeeeautiful couple! I think Kate Moss is the most beautiful woman in the world (my other Most Beautiful Woman is Ciara, no joke, she’s SO GORGEOUS), and as anyone who knew me during the wild days of my youth can tell you, OMG JOHNNY DEPP IZ MAH HUZBAND! POTC!!!!! I HAVE A NOTEBOOK WITH HIS FACE ON IT!

The ever-so-cool nineties fashion, the insouciance (such a Vogue word, I hate it, but you know it’s perf), the gritty paparazzi shots…oh, I DIE! I’m going to run home and buy a pack of cigarettes and make my boyfriend smoke them while taking Holgas. WE CAN BE ICONIC TOO!

Creeping is Genetic

I was going through my very important files the other day–you know, files like Tax Information (soup recipes, random receipts), Published Work (empty!), and Northwestern (Phi Beta Kappa paraphernalia, betches! No, I did NOT purchase the $200 mahogany engraved PBK stool!)–when I found a file marked simply “Stuff.”

It was a treasure trove! First of all, it was full of flattering old Polaroids of myself (IS THIS REAL LIFE?), kind birthday cards from people who love me (HI GRANDMA!), hilarious photocopies of Gary Larson cartoons (I’m kind of a hoarder), and best of all, the most adorable ephemera you can possibly imagine, created just for me by my baby sister. There was an invitation to a VIP-only “movie night.” There was a card promising me a shopping spree which never quite managed to materialize. And lo and behold, there was a booklet called 9 Ways to Get Through College. The dedication read: “To Tori (of course, who else that I know of is in college?)”.

Here is Way to Get Through College #8:


Be My Child: The Application Process

I’ve been getting a lot of comments, emails, and even a few phone calls lately from people who would like to be my child. Now, as an opinionated and probably somewhat obnoxious girl of 16 or 17, I spent a large portion of my time declaring to the world that I would NEVER have children. (The rest of my time was occupied with researching Nero, my favorite Roman emperor, and preparing original monologues for play tryouts where I awkwardly insulted Oprah because I didn’t realize high schoolers actually LIKE Oprah.) 
I still find the concept of children mildly claustrophobic, but now and then I see an adorable little chubster with his hip mom at Intelligentsia, and I think to myself, “YOU ARE SUCH A POSER, HIP MOM!” and then I think to myself “That child better not spill his doppio macchiato on my new Louboutins—dammnit!” and then I think to myself “Aw, his morbidly obese cheeks are pretty cute,” and then I think to myself, “What would be so terrible about having a little kid running around to bake me cookies, foam milk for my cappuccinos, and tell me “Mommy, you look beautiful!” every time I ring a bell?” 
But I am a woman of high standards, and I will not accept just any child. I need a truly exceptional child with a great work ethic, a charmingly rakish grin, and a finely-honed sense of personal style. If you’d like to apply to be my child, please read the guidelines below before submitting your application.

Can your cheeks accurately be described as “chubby,” “rosy,” “voluptuous,” or “squeezable”?

Can you bake the ideal chocolate chip cookie—thin, chewy, crispy around the edges, buttery, a little salty, and oozing with chocolate chips?

Are your hands small enough to fix the innards of a dying computer BUT strong enough to give great massages?

Can you commit to showing great artistic promise before your 4th birthday?

Do you solemnly swear that your artistic greatness will be in a different field than mine?

Do you have legitimate, personal connections in the world of literary adult publishing?

If an offer of employment is extended, can you commit to bringing the following on your first day of work?

  • A pair of Louboutin Dillian Flower Pumps, size 8, your choice of color
  • Anything Burberry, must have signature plaid clearly visible for status symbol purposes 
  • A sachet of lavender potpourri including toenail clippings from Hugh Jackman, Scott Weiland, Adrian Brody, and Josh Ritter 

If you answered YES to all of the above questions, please continue on to the WRITING SECTION. If you answered NO to any of the above questions, I’m terribly sorry, but you are not qualified to be my child.

Mommy is having a bad day. Come up with 5 compliments that will make her feel better.

Complete the following paragraph:

The sound of twittering bluebirds outside her window woke Tori from her dreamy slumber. She stretched, yawning _______ly, and opened her ______ eyes. A ________smile played across her ________ face. She tossed on a gown of finest rose-gold silk, which made her look absolutely _________ and ________________ and ___________________________________________. Her little boy/girl pattered into the room carrying a big tray of fresh __________ and said, “_____________________!”

Essay Prompt:

As Plutonious once said, a great mother is one who slaves over her children until her hands are chapped and raw, forever putting the needs of others above herself. Do you agree? Why or why not? Please respond in less than 500 words.

Thank you. Your application is being reviewed by the committee and you can expect a response within 4-5 months. Have a nice day.

Photos That Won’t be Taken at My Wedding

Like every red-blooded girl, I dream of the day when I will creep into an upside-down cupcake and get on one of those flying surfboards that the Backstreet Boys use to make a splashy entrance at their concerts and fly over the heads of my nearest and dearest while pyrotechnics explode uncomfortably close to the pastor. It is the first thing I think of in the morning and the last thing I text my boyfriend at night. WHAT? But I feel very strongly about wedding photos, so here is a NON-NEGOTIABLE list of photos that won’t be taken at my wedding.

NO cutesy couples shoe pictures. Should Hugh Jackman and/or my future husband show up in color-coordinated plaid hipster socks or Converse, the wedding will be called off immediately.

NO shots of our rings nestled in a dewy rose.

NO snapshot of the shank tied to my thigh with a yard of borrowed blue ribbon.

NO photos of the bridesmaids from the side or the back (keep them looking as 3D as possible at all times, thanks.)

If I am marrying someone other than Hugh Jackman, there will be NO closeups of Hugh’s face as I walk down the aisle. His look of heartbreak would absolutely kill me.

NO jumping group shots. This is not High School Musical.

NO “candid” photos of me looking out of the window, applying lipstick in front of an old-fashioned mirror, shaving my upper lip, etc. I will be aware of the camera AT ALL TIMES.

NO “stolen moments of romance” between the bride and groom will be photographed. Nothing is less hip than inauthenticity. I mean, yeah, I’m happy to be Mrs. Jackman blah blah BLAH but I don’t need the paparazzi instructing me to “lean your head back a little bit farther – now Hugh, look down at her with an expression of deep joy on your face – that looks a bit stiff, maybe you should try smiling – ok, Tori, gently place one earlobe on this convenient hyacinth – CUE THE WHITE DOVES – great, great, now hold that!”

NO photos of people smiling.

NO photos of random little kids dancing. All children will be busy serving aperitifs.

NO photos of Howard the Male Dancer, because he is NOT invited even though I KNOW he’ll show up.

NO shots of the time machine required to transport me back to the 1920s and marry F. Scott Fitzgerald before Zelda gets to him.

NO photos of me running through a shower of white rice. That’s basically a gauntlet*, and it is a HORRIFYING concept.

NO shots of old people having a great time. I catered a wedding once, and an old man tried to “dance” (read: grope) me after demanding I pour him another glass of wine. I refuse to let that happen again.

NO closeups of the look of terror on my face every time I have flashbacks to my first proposal.

NO pictures of me if I am having a bad hair day.

*I couldn’t remember what a gauntlet was called, so I Googled “run down a line of indians with tomahawks” and I got it! HAHA! Thanks Google!

Special Slogans

As David Foster Wallace once said (I can’t find the quote, so I’m paraphrasing), Who are these people who think sloganed t-shirts are funny? These people who wear shirts that say “FBI: Female Body Inspector” or “This Ain’t a Beer Belly – It’s a Fuel Tank for a Sex Machine”? Since we’re being offensive here, nothing says white trash like a good ol’ sloganed t-shirt referencing beer, sex, or date rape (or slavery! no joke). In a desperate effort to fight against the deterioration of our culture via t-shirt hawkers like, I’m thinking of using my OWN slogans to start a t-shirt business. I’d really love your feedback regarding marketability, mass appeal, etc. Some of these are intellectual, some are adorable, but ALL of them are positive and sparkling with joie de vivre. 

Accessorize With a Great Book!

Smile: You’re On LIFE.

I Sartre Like You

I Nietzsche Use the Restroom, Excuse Me for One Moment

Rushdie Pizza Delivery, I’m Starving!

Love Like Your Foot Has Never Been Stepped on While Wearing Flip-Flops on Public Transportation

Dance Like Your Dad is Watching

Sing Like You’re Trying To Drown Out the Brawling Homeless Men Beneath Your Window

Laugh Inappropriately (It’s a Sign of Schizophrenia!)

Girls’ Night Out: Behind My Charming Smiles Lies a Viper of Judgment

Date Night: Can You Pay Again? This is the Last Time, I Swear

I Found My True Love on Google Image Search

I Dragged Your Facebook Profile Picture to My Desktop

Dad’s in Jail: Let’s Party!

Just Planning My Wedding to My Ex-Boyfriend During My Lunch Break

Is This Email – “hi friend it is not hard to lengthen” – Spam or Does Someone Named Helen Care About Me?

Closed-Mouth Smiles: Opiate of the Creepers

Did He Just Look at Me or at the Girl Behind Me? I’m Stressed.


Welcome to my pet project. I’m developing a special line of t-shirts catered toward the flawless taste of all my Chicago gurlz, especially ones who shun Rapelyville and the Gold Coast of Lameness for hipper clubs filled with harmless (?!?!?) gay (?!?!?!?!?!?) men (?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!).

Please Don’t Touch Me, Howard

Somebody Who Loves Me Molested Me at Atmosphere in Andersonville (It Was
Howard the Male Dancer)

This Time I Mean It, Howard!

Howard, Please Put On Some Pants

Howard, You Have a Seven Year Old Daughter? Ew!

Charlie, Can You Pick Me Up at the Corner of Clark and Balmoral?

The Vomwhich

Reader, welcome. Rest thy weary feet–nay, bathe them, caressing the soft inner skin of each delicate toe, in this bowl of sage-infused ice water I have prepared for thee. Welcome. Welcome. Welcome to my home, my hearth, my heart. Welcome to my kitchen. Welcome. Welcome.

This? This fragrant dish, redolent with the season’s first crumbberries, golden with butter, frothy with fat? Why, Reader, this–this is for you. 

I call it “the Vomwhich.”

Take a bite. Masticate. Do not the flavors melt on your tongue, drizzling down the back of your throat, caressing the acidity of your stomach juices, meandering down your large intestine? This is not just food, Reader. This is a spark from the aether–a diamond winking from the Great Abyss.

 I created my first Vomwhich when I was a young girl in Vienna, wandering the ashen cobblestones, heart heavy with the bittersweet weight of my first love. In the evenings, I would slip, wraith-like, past the Viennese bars, their golden glow spilling onto the sidewalk like the intestines of a young calf. I sucked in the breeze through each eager, trembling nostril, smelling the musk of wine, the mould of cheese, and the vague, intangible fragrance of a world that was not my own. Ah, Reader, sometimes I think I subsided on nothing but air during those lush, lost, languid days in Vienna.

But eventually Hunger, that persistent animal, would begin to gnaw on the tender pink lining of my stomach, and I would trickle back to my apartment with its bare bulb and its rusting toilet and out of the deep longing in my soul, the wild wonder fluttering against my cerebellum, I would make myself a Vomwhich.

It fed more that just my stomach, Reader. It fed my soul.

1 baguette, sliced
4 tbsp butter, room temperature
3 olives
7 crumbberries    
Drizzle of lard (optional)

Layer each fragrant ingredient on the soft inner belly of the baguette. Consume. Breathe.