I'm starting to feel like I'm the Tara Reid of Corporate America.
Much like the security detail and bouncers must be thinking, “Ugh! Her again!” as she’s drunkenly wobbling outside of a club with her Frankenboobs hanging out, the people in Human Resources are probably looking at my resume thinking, “Ugh! Him again! Doesn’t he get it? He’s not wanted here.”
The bad news: everyone and everything is annoying me this afternoon (a trend I’m 99% certain will continue throughout the weekend, as friends constantly tweet, facebook, and text me about how fun and slutty Pride is this year, all seemingly just to remind me of how I’m not doing anything, all because I’m still trapped in the midwest and midwestern gays hate me, for reasons that have been unknown to me since the day I came out).
The good news: I look really cute today and my hair is shockingly working in my favor, despite the humidity.
Yves Saint Laurent must be rolling in his grave right now. Mr. Slimane, I respect any vision you bring to the brand, but with all due respect, this is not your house. A great many designers have been able to inject their own DNA into established fashion houses (Tom Ford for Gucci, Phoebe Philo for Chloe, Alexander McQueen for Givenchy, just off the top of my head), so a name change right out of the gate seems not only a tad bit premature, but utterly unnecessary.
Email from Lillie:Why am I still watching this show? I really don't know.
Email #1 from Justin:It boggles my mind that this has been one of the highest-rated seasons of RHOC in Bravo history. NOTHING HAPPENED!
Email #2 from Justin:I also hope you read my "NOTHING HAPPENED!" in a spastic Vicki voice, complete with shaking bobblehead and flailing arms, because that's precisely how it should have been interpreted.