Kitty kat.

Please direct your attention to the following site. This was brought to my attention by a delightful friend who suggested this go on le blog. Never did I think I would be discussing perfume that smells like a ripe vag, but stranger things have happened.

It goes without saying that this is unspeakably, horrifically trashy. This is perhaps the zenith of trash, along with frosted lipstick and styling mousse. There are people in this world who decided it would be okay to BOTTLE THE SCENT OF A WOMAN'S VAGINA. People. Seriously. I don't care if you're a neckbearded virgin with a RealDoll at home in your parent's basement or some gigolo pimp-master brohan who bags Marina bitches every weekend with a calculated recipe of crantinis and an excessive amount of Acqua di Gio. This product is marketed at each and every one of you. As a MASTURBATORY AID. If you are so fucking creepy that you need manufactured scent of vagina to bring yourself to pitiful, gasping orgasm, I sincerely hope that you never get laid again.

Hair of the dog.

You rallied last night, got your ass off the couch and went out to the bar with the kids. Maybe you didn't eat dinner. Maybe you had two huge drinks, smoked some pot and then ate a burrito. Maybe also you threw up last night and briefly considered making a bed for yourself on the floor of the bathroom with the throw rug draped ceremoniously over you like a stole. Now you're awake, you've got a headache and every time you stand up you bob and weave like a homeless. This is not ideal. It's Sunday. There's shit that needs to get done. Laundry. Return things to the library. Take a shower. Fix your bangs, which are insane right now. Maybe eat those chips your roommate bought last night while you contemplate doing a face mask and watching Season 4 of Sex and the City. You kind of wish you could get stoned and watch nature shows on the Discovery Channel but lack cable, pot and the drive to find either. Looks like someone's hung over!

Hangovers look like this. Hangovers are the feeling when you wake up dressed only in your underwear and a sweatshirt, wondering why you failed to put on pants or remove the sweatshirt. Sometimes you wake up and there's a bag of Milanos, a Nalgene filled with water and a pair of scissors in your bed next to you. There's no reasonable explanation for this.
Let's all try to handle hangovers with decorum, grace and dignity. Wash your face. Put on some pants. Brush your teeth, even if the sensation of the toothbrush in your mouth is enough to make you vomit again. Throw on your eating pants and get your ass to brunch. You're going to eat a trough full of hash-browns, hollandaise and bacon. It's going to be delicious.

Get a job.

A change has come over me recently. A sudden, nauseating but also oddly liberating change. A change that was a long time coming, maybe, but was also one for the better, even though I didn't believe that at first and had to be told this over drinks and photobooth pictures one balmy Wednesday in early September. I've shuffled off the mortal coil of Bravo! Marketing. I've become unemployed. Redundant, as the British call it. Done.

This recent development leads to an entirely new realm of trashiness previously undiscovered and never written about on this blog. Daytime trashiness. Middle of the week, still at home in your pajamas because you woke up at 7:30 thinking you still had a job for a brief moment trashiness. Watching the Today Show past 9 am. Forcing yourself to leave the house and going to Walgreens to buy tampons and a blowdryer. Walking around throngs of the possibly-homeless pushing carts in the A/V section of the library and coming home with awkward documentaries and a copy of "Say Anything" because you haven't seen it yet, but you heard it was good. Yesterday, I watched a documentary about children at a musical theatre camp in the Catskills and somehow felt ok about myself after it was over. This is monumental.

There's something vaguely unclean about being home during the day on a weekday. For a while, you feel like you're just at home, on a sick day, and it's fun. No one's around! I can eat ice cream! Look, I'm watching the View! Then, around 12:30, it hits. You've been up for a really long time. You thought you had a job when you woke up this morning and in fact, you do not. People have already started their day and are at lunch, eating compact plates of falafel and chatting with their co-workers. You've maybe had a handful of cookies and stared at the fridge with the door open for a while. You peck for a little while at craigslist and send out some cover letters. It all feels rusty, like you've done this before and it sucked and now you have to do it again. There's an air of desperation, even though it's sunny and perfect outside. You know you're going to get through this, regardless of what happens. It will all be ok.