• Facebook Sponsored Ads

I’m just so tired of feeling like I don’t live up to today’s standard of beauty. It’s not enough that I am overwhelmed by hyper-sexualized and sexist advertisement every time I step outside, but now when I am supposedly safe at home relaxing at my computer over some nice warm Facebook, I am also bombarded by these images of unreachable ideals toward which society constantly pressures me to strive.

I mean, just look at this. These are screenshots of actual sponsored ads from my own Facebook page that have targeted me just because I have probably somehow indicated womanly tendencies somewhere on my profile:

Image

This just isn’t even fair. I was born made out of skin and eyeballs. How am I supposed to just erase that off my face and paint doll-like replacements over it to cover 2/3 of my face? This look is impossible without some seriously expensive eye socket-groove removal surgery, so that the surface of the face is flat enough to paint in 2D. You would also have to give up your sense of sight, but that may not be such a bad idea if you have to live with a face that doesn’t include the nose elongation that accentuates this look. That procedure is probably routine, if you can afford the trip to Lebanon. Otherwise, you’re out of luck, snub-nose. The pouty lips probably don’t require too much collagen if you can keep up manually pouting, which is more natural anyway. But overall, this look is just not for the proletariat, and seriously, that is so divisive. Women need to build each other up, not be pitted against each other because of economic means.

 

 

Image

If only the bulge effect feature on my laptop’s built-in camera could be applied to my actual face. This woman has great genes, but if you’re not from her specific family, I don’t see how anyone is supposed to look like this. I’m sorry we can’t all be born to a Nicki Minaj mother and a fish father.

 

 

Image

Can someone please tell me how I am supposed to achieve this look? How does she stay so blotchy even while indoors? I tried to replicate this by getting into a severely violent fight with an acupuncturist, but the blood on my face kept smearing off onto my collar and sleeve. Sigh, how does she get it so perfect? It drives me nuts that we human women have nothing to compare ourselves with but model-like blotchiness. Why not get a regular woman who is just regular blotchy so we can feel confident about our blotch?

 

 

Clearly Livingsocial is looking for regular Facebook women to aim for something that will never be regular. A skin cream can’t give you an elongated nose or fish eyes or blotchiness that looks like suspended bleeding. These women are no doubt beautiful, but we should love ourselves and be happy with what we’ve got. Never let this kind of unrealistic advertisement make you feel “less than.” Now, go look in the mirror at the scales on your shoulders or the prosthetic arm you have coming out of your ear or the second head you have instead of a left boob, and cherish it.

• Cleopatra of Thebes

Who?!

EXACTLY.

The mummy of Cleopatra of Thebes is currently in the British Museum, but for the longest time I didn’t know it was Cleopatra “of Thebes.” I thought it was CLEOPATRA Cleopatra.

I got to enjoy several misplaced waves of righteous outrage at Britain at large for helping themselves to the mummified remains of the Egyptian queen, and concluded I could hold anything over their heads because they occupied our country for over 70 years, raped our ancestors, and we, the Egyptians, as a people, dammit, have been robbed of so many artifacts, as well as of CLEOPATRA HERSELF.

They owe us forever.

Except this isn’t Cleopatra herself. This isn’t Cleopatra VII, the foul Egyptian who betrayed Antony. The one who was so influential that she got to have a Shakespeare play about her.

This is some shitty teenager who died at the age of 17 and had the same name as the more famous Cleopatra. And she died about 150 years after the good Cleopatra, Cleopatra VII, the one who I wanted to blame Britain for stealing so I could have an excuse to have Elizabeth. Because a queenswap of Cleo for Liz would only be fair. And Elizabeth is a little cutie. She’d be a great souvenir to bring back to my friends when I leave the UK.

What I know about this Cleopatra from the British Museum is that her father was some official from Thebes. An “official,” that’s so vague, he could have just been a fucking security guard, or a bureaucrat. He probably stood outside buildings triumphantly fining people ridiculous fees for not having the right documents on them, hall monitor-mentalitied shithead.

And he was definitely an asshole because he named his shitty kid “Cleopatra.” He’s like those parents in Kenya who are like “Barack Obama is a famous Kenyan, I’m going to name 15 of my babies Barack Obama!” Or the parents in the Middle East who thought that the Arab Spring was caused directly by Facebook and decided to name their shitty babies “Facebook” and “Like,” for fuck’s sake. THAT is the kind of father this guy was.

And his horrible teenager is in the British Museum getting all the attention she probably craved because any teenager with a name like Cleopatra has got to be a fucking awful diva.

Shitty Cleopatra

“Come ON, Daddy, I want to be buried with more gold”

The only other thing I know from the British Museum about this shitty Cleopatra is that her bandaging is messy, so the bandages on the exterior are loose, but on the interior, the bandages are so tight that her left hip has been dislocated.

Fuck you and your shitty body image issues, Cleopatra of Thebes. Stop trying to look skinnier than you are, and stop setting such a shitty example for girls your age about what it means to be beautiful.

• UK Student Visa

UK

Since I’m a Foreign, once a year I have to have a meeting with someone at my university and show them my student visa/passport to prove that I’m “engaged” with my program.

This is so they can ensure that I haven’t sneakily acquired a student visa as an avenue for taking advantage of the gapingly liberal immigration system to escape into a void of the United Kingdom, marry scores of sought-after English gentlemen, seize employment out of the penniless hands of starving Britishes from the numerous establishments hungry with desire to hire me, or commit random acts of terrorism on strangers and acquaintances.

They do this by taking a photocopy of my passport and asking me how the program is going.

Last year my answer was “okay,” but then I locked my deadened eyes with the interviewer, allowed for a quick mist to build up, which I then blinked away, and held that stance for 40–65 seconds so that he would know it’s the opposite of okay. It’s NOkay.

This year, possible answers are:

  • “Let me answer your question with a question: what is your favorite medieval torture method, and why?”
  • “This life that I’m living right now is like playing out a personal fantasy for me. I’m doing everything I’ve ever dreamed of doing.” *overturn interviewer’s desk*
  • “If you had to die at the hands of a medieval torturer, how would you want to go?”
  • “It’s above driving a vehicle off the edge of a cliff, but below driving nails into my skull.”
  • *hand interviewer jar of own blood*
  • “Would you rather allow medieval torture to overtake you as you slipped out of existence, or would you rather endure the torture and continue living, but as a constantly-agonized vegetable?”
  • “A PhD is like a garden. You fertilize it, water it, feed it, tend to it, nurture it, and then sit back and watch some kids trample it with their bicycles.”
  • (same answer as 2012)

• 21 Year-Old Me

The following is a true story modified to fit the way I believe it should have unfolded.

(21 year-old me is traveling alone in Ireland. I show my passport at Shannon Airport)

Man checking my passport: (points at my passport photo in which I am 18) Is this you?
21 year-old me: Yeah.
Passport man: You look…different.
21YOM: It’s me.
Pervy passport man: Yeah, but you’ve changed…You’ve gotten…amazing.
21: Heh, I’ve aged.

(Record scratch, tires screech, jukebox stops. A glimmer in the air materializes into a portal. Present-day me rips through portal and jump-tackles 21 year-old me.)

Present-day me: (throwing punches) SHUT THE FUCK UP.
21: Ow, ow, ow. I mean, I stay up really late pulling all-nighters for my college essays. Ow. I get bags under my eyes. OW.
PDM: (kneeling on throat of 21 year-old me, timing shouts in sync with face-punches) FUCK. ING. SHUT. UP.
21: I don’t look anything like that picture!
PDM: (gripping throat of 21 year-old me, trying to locate lethal pressure point) YOU DO YOUR EYEBROWS DIFFERENT AND THAT’S IT.
21: (struggling for breath) I still had baby fat.
PDM: (punch, punch) YOU WANNA SEE FAT? (lifts shirt, unzips jeans, beer belly tumbles out, undulating onto 21 year-old me’s face) THIS IS FAT.
21: That won’t happen to me, I metabolize like a machine.
PDM: Until the age of 26, you entitled beast.
21: Plus, I found one gray hair when I was–
PDM: (removes beanie)
21: OH PLEASE GOD, NO.
PDM: WE DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD ANYMORE. (gets up, retrieves pitchfork from portal)
21: NOOOO.
PDM: (sticks pitchfork in the stomach of 21 year-old me and picks 21 year-old me up like a sausage off a plate, carries pitchforked 21 year-old me across the airport into airplane to London, awaits take-off, opens emergency exit on airplane, hangs still-pitchforked 21 year-old me out of the exit, pushes 21 year-old me off the pitchfork with my foot, sending 21 year-old me careening into the Irish Sea) YOU WILL QUICKLY RECOVER FROM THESE INJURIES BECAUSE YOUR FIRM YOUNG BODY IS STILL RESILIENT TO MORTALITY. NEVER SPEAK AGAIN UNTIL YOU’RE AT LEAST 30.

My eyebrows circa 2002.

My passport eyebrows circa 2002.

One cool thing about this post is that some later version of me can travel back in time and also do this to the relatively less disgusting version of me that wrote this.

• McDonald’s Egypt “Taste of the World”

McDonald’s Egypt has been running these “Taste of the World” promotions.

Compete with an ethnic to win prizes! (Egyptians are not ethnics)

The Asian is a sandwich.

 

The Asian is a man.

 

Sometimes the man is “an” Asian.

 

The Asian man is Chinese.

 

Chopsticks are Asian.

 

Origami is Japanese.

ASIA.

 

The Turkish is a sandwich. Or maybe possibly a people.

 

Sometimes the people are the Turks.

 

THE TURKS LOOK LIKE THIS

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Potential future Taste of the World promotions:

  • The Latino: Compete with an hombre to see who can snort lines of coke off a burger the quickest.
  • The Indian : (no relation to The Asian) The same chicken sandwich pictured above, but with spicy curry sauce + compete in a rickshaw race with an Egyptian actor who has “browned up” his skin and does a funny accent.
  • The African: An empty McDonald’s sandwich wrapper + compete with miscellaneous black man wearing UN-donated clothes in a starvation challenge, whoever doesn’t die wins.
  • The Russian: Take a prostitute into a pile of snow with a keg of vodka. Die on the inside, but show no outward emotion. No competition/winner.

 

 

• Asperger’s

Is it Asperger’s or Asperger’s? I constantly hear it pronounced both ways. WHICH IS IT? It’s named after a person, this shouldn’t be ambiguous.

I’m going to pronounce it like this until further clarification.

This has been my contribution to autism awareness. I do what I can as a woman of the people.

• Vauxhall

I was just in California for a holiday and returned to London yesterday. Yesterday was also my two-year anniversary of living in London. I’m not into anniversaries and superstition, but one thing I said aloud recently to a friend in California was, “I booked a flight to return to London on my two-year anniversary with London; I hope something terrible happens.”

Two years ago when I moved to London, it was to a part of London called Vauxhall. I don’t live there anymore because fuck that place.

As it turns out, yesterday something terrible did happen: a helicopter crashed into a crane in Vauxhall, and then, as the Guardian puts it, “cartwheeled before bursting into flames.”

Strangely enough, that is precisely what happened to my life exactly two years ago to the day. Remarkable and uncanny.

Image

One of my dearest friends picking me up at the airport on the day my life cartwheeled and burst into flames. He’s handsomer than this but I have no business tarnishing his face with my website.

This helicopter incident could have only happened because it happened in Vauxhall, because Vauxhall is a sinister bastion of malevolent, vile, contemptible evil and villainy.

If you’re from Vauxhall or live in Vauxhall or have anything good to say about Vauxhall and don’t like what this post has to say, fuck you for being associated with Vauxhall and stop looking at me like I’m not Portuguese enough.


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The worst thing about plagiarism is how good I am at revenge.


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