All Of Our Nightmares Have Come True: Justin Bieber Is An Underwear Model

A photo posted by Justin Bieber (@justinbieber) on Jan 1, 2015 at 2:18pm PST

I'm not one of those crazy end-of-the-worlders, but it's the end of the world. I'm certain of this because the universe's most irritating infant, Justin Bieber, is showing off all of his cookies and milk as the newest Calvin Klein underwear model. And if that isn't the biggest sign of Earth's impending doom, I don't know what is.

If you don't feel like vom-ing enough, here's a little more fuel to your barf fire.

A photo posted by Justin Bieber (@justinbieber) on Jan 1, 2015 at 2:07pm PST

NOPE. Not today, Satan. Not today.

And now, because I've subjected you to the Bubonic Plague of things to see with eyeballs, here's some adorable salve.

It's so slippery, and his little hooves/paws/foot things can't even handle it! And neither can my heart. Goodbye.



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Miley Cyrus Show's Off Fall's Biggest Trends: Ice Cream Nips And Pill Glasses

pic via miley's instagram

"Oh, hey, guys. I don't really get why everybody is all up on me about being over the top, and shit. I'm just being Miley. HAHAHHA. Remember that? But f'real, what's the big ol' deal about letting your boobs free? And wearing DIY pill googles? At night? And having a worrisome glitter-rash? Pshhaw, get a life, y'all. IT AIN'T NO THING." - Miley***

***Not a direct MiCy quote, so don't be pinning that crap to your inspirational Pinterest board (bored?), or whatever.

Listen, I actually can't find any effs to rub together that Miley is running around sans turtleneck. Or even dickie. Whatever. If you want to wear food-centric pasties until your nips quit that bitch, I really don't care. It's your silly-ass life.

But when homie posted this picture, I really COULD NOT cosign on the outlandish behavior.

via instagram

In case you have a case of the I-can't-see-upside-downs, it says "Punk's Not Dead" with a picture of Britney Spears shaving her head.

I WILL HIDE YOUR ARTS AND CRAFTS SUPPLIES. Do not mess with my Brit Brit. Meanwhile...



Brit's killing us softly with ankle socks.

 

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The "What's It Like?" Chronicles: Boob Job Edition

before: so much early '00s & after: '10, probs the last time I wore a bra

I don't think I've ever mentioned here that I have fake boobs. I mean, I also have real boobs, but underneath those are fake bag ones. It definitely hasn't been an intentional omission, you know that I'm weirdly transparent about my life. Maybe even too transparent, like Crystal Pepsi. I've just had these ol' puppies for ten years, and I don't ever think about them. I also don't ever wear boob-showy stuff anymore, so much so that I had to dig back four years for this current-ish boob picture.

But this is a blog about me sharing my experiences about beauty-related shit, and this happened in my life and is semi-beauty-ish, so we might as well talk about it. Especially since I have already done a post about what it's like to get Botox. I'm just going to keep chugging along on this cosmetic alterations train. Choo mf-ing choo.

If you don't have two effs to rub together about boobs, or boob-related surgeries, feel completely free to skip all of this hootenany. (Boobenany?)

When people find out I've had a boob job, I usually get my fair share of questions and curiosities, so I've compiled a few of the regular ones. If you have weirder ones, feel free to ask.

Why did you get them? I've always had my fair share of body issues. I can literally remember the minute they started. I was a Freshman in high school, shopping at 5-7-9 with my mom for a Homecoming dress. I put the first one on: a lace, spaghetti-strapped, long, tight navy dress. It was the first time I had ever noticed that I had recently developed hips. And saddle bags. I told my mom that I wasn't coming out of the dressing room because I was fat. She said something to the effect of, "This is what an adult body looks like, so you better get used to it." And I responded with something along the lines of, "Well, I don't like it."

Fast-forward to almost ten years later, and I've decided that having bigger boobs will "even me out" and take care of all of my lower body worries. So, I did it, without very much thought. (Now you see why I have a butterfly tramp stamp. This is how I make major life decisions.)

Did that work? Please. Absolutely not.

Does it hurt? Kind of, for a few days. And it feels weird as shit when you're getting used to having implants. There's a foreign object under your chest muscle, so the first time you do stuff like vacuum or drive IT FEELS CRAZY.

What do they feel like when you touch them? Straight up round ziploc baggies under a boob. I have felt friends' silicone implants (I have saline, which is just salt water), and those feel less ziploc-y.
   
How's life different afterward? Here are a few things that will change, for sure:

• You will never enjoy sleeping on your stomach in the same way again. You can still do it, but it's never, ever the same.
• Bras just fit weird. Either your nipples hang out, or you have a gap between your skin and the cup. True life.
• People will ask you a lot of questions about your boobs. I clearly don't mind, but shy people, be aware.
• You'll have to replace them every 10-ish years. It's past that time for me, but I probably won't swap mine out unless I have problems or it becomes totally necessary. I just don't care enough what they look like anymore. They're saggier now, but what am I, a boob model? (No, I am not.)
• You might have second (and third and fourth) thoughts on your decision. It's not the early 00's anymore, and fake boobs aren't as popular as they were back in my young buck days. Plus, it didn't make me feel any better about myself, like I anticipated. I've thought about getting my implants taken out, but that's just SO MUCH work. And I'm sure I still wouldn't be happy. And I do enjoy not being married to wearing a bra.

 

Here's the bottom line: I really wish that I had just been okay with myself enough to not even worry about having plastic surgery in my early twenties. (I know, I know -- what a trite and annoying way to end this.) But seriously, everyone should just enjoy what they've got and work that shit. This is your damn time. On the other hand, it's your body, so just do what you want with it. If you want surgery, modifications, whatever the hell your deal is, that's cool too. Do you, baby.

Okay, I'm so over talking about myself that I can't even stand it one for second. Can we just talk about Justin Bieber? Or at least someone else's boobs?






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An Open Letter To Jennifer Love Hewitt: I'm So Sorry, But We Can't Have Blonde Hair.

Hey, J. Love, (Are we still doing that? No?)

I came across the segment of you on Ellen yesterday. I noticed something from jump street that made me feel a little uneasy, but I ignored it. I tried, instead, to focus on how much you've calmed your (literal) tits and how at-ease you now seem in comparison to your former, way over-sharing ways. I like this new you. You seem quite genuine and lovely, so I pushed my bitchy ass thoughts aside.

Then my friend (Hey, V) tagged me in a post about you, with a picture similar to the one above, on Facebook, and I voiced my displeasure about your current hair color haps. Then I tried to move on with my life. I really did. I went to get a coffee. I gave my dog her dog pills. I tried to think of other things to ponder, like how many times we will get to see Eric Northman's ass on this season of True Blood. Or why I can't stop watching Silence of the Lambs, like, nonstop.

BUT I COULDN'T GET THIS SHIT OUT OF MY MF-ING HEAD. Listen, I'm the last person that should judge a person's hair decisions. I make terrible life decisions, especially when it comes to my hair color. I'm that person that dyes their hair with blue-black boxed dye for several years, decides they want to be blonde, gets their hair done every two weeks until it's platinum blonde, then promptly dyes over it with black boxed dye again. I'm the actual worst hair-related-decision-making human.

That's why I feel like I can tell you this. I'm right here with you, sister. We can't be blonde. At least not this blonde. And, unlike you, I was born a blonde. (I watched every damn episode of Kids Incorporated, honey. From Fergie to you. Don't try me.) So it really hurts my nearly-unfeeling heart.

I blocked my friend's face so he won't have to be embarrassed by my hair choices.

LOOK AT US, JLH. WE LOOK LIKE A GD MATCHING SET OF MANILLA ENVELOPES, MAN. I'm not saying this to be a huge c-face (this time). I just wish someone had told me sooner.

I just got my hair done the other day, and when I told my stylist that I wanted to add a little more blonde, he said, "Okay, but you can't have too much near your face. Your skin tone has yellow undertones and your eyes are dark. It won't look right." That's the first time that a professional has told me that. Ever. In all of my precarious hair coloring history. Which is nearing 20 years. And he was right as a mofo.

I'm so sorry that I have to be the one to tell you. I know that it's shitty, but we can't all be blonde. It's like me, you and Jodi Arias. Them's the breaks, kid. Someone had to tell you.

At least you have a great rack, seem extremely sweet, and look absolutely beautiful with your various other hair colors. It gets better.

You have my deepest regrets,

Shan



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