Oh, KStew. I'm sure you're "celebrating" (Google that word, girl. You might learn that you're doing it all kinds of wrong--it usually involves a smile or two.) But I'm pretty sure you're "sittin' on the stoop of the bay...gettin' hiiiiigh."
And THIS. Is. Perfect.
So yeah. Happy 22nd Birthday, you ungrateful, awkward weirdo. I'll say it again--if you hate being an actress--and ALL THAT GOES ALONG WITH YOUR POSITION so gotdamn much, let someone else the job who might just *appreciate the position you've been given.
[uh-pree-shee-eyt] Show IPA verb, -at·ed, -at·ing.
I own the fact that I am beating one of my favorite "dead horses".
Allow me, if you will, to channel my Inner Drew Barrymore...
Am I pregnant? That's such a clinical term. I feel, with all my heart and soul that I am a breathing vessel of sorts for a beautiful baby butterfly that's just, like, fluttering around here (holds belly gently with both hands).
Closing eyes to reflect...
Do I get what? Morning sickness? Why would anyone refer to the utter glory of gently spewing up a bright lemony-limey liquid into my chamber pot, as a "sickness"? It's a magical part of the journey of being With-Butterfly, experiencing "The Daisy Nectar" drip from my lips as I kneel in the warm waterfall of my shower. You do know I heard from my psychic that the
sour morning sickness bile"Daisy Nectar" is wonderfully magical and nourishing for a mother's skin. I collect mine in antique jars and atomizers if I don't have time to luxuriate in the fresh morning "Daisy Dew" (I call it that, too) of my shower. Isn't it just amazing and magical? I can just spritz it anywhere, really.
Oh, yes. I do plan on marketing my "Daisy Nectar/Dew" because marketing is magical. Making money on my precious fluttery butterfly, honeybee, hummingbird baby is purely magical. What? Of course my precious miracle of magical-ness will be "Trademarked". So don't even try, Bitches. What I mean is, there is only one...and it shall be MY magical little birdie from my very own inner nest.
*I pray to be like the ocean, with soft currents, maybe waves at times. More and more, I want the consistency rather than the highs and the lows.
CUT and PRINT.
Oh, that last line? Drew Barrymore actually uttered those words.
Isn't she just so incredibly magically profound? Ugh..I need to go barf and I'm not pregnant by a long shot.
Let's start a pool on Drew Barrymore's Baby Names, shall we?
Photo: Michael Muller
As if I ever doubted the fact, it is indeed All. About. Patrick.
The third of about 28 phone calls throughout my day from my dearest friend consisted of the following conversation I was privileged to overhear between Patrick and an unknown caller on his other phone:
Patrick: Hello? Uh huh. Oh. Wow. (This sounds serious, I think to myself.)
After a 30-second pause, I'm getting worried. I'm sure the Patrick is going to say, "Wasn't anyone HOME with Mom when she fell out of her wheelchair?" or "I never even knew he was SICK." But no.
(The dreaded flat tone of voice....)
Patrick: Do they have any bearclaws, then.
Patrick: I really wanted a gotdamn apple turnover. Those IDIOTS.
Oh, Patrick. See what I have to put up with? I wouldn't have it any other way, though. (Or would I?) Naaawww.
Just look at him with Felix...but I did have to share this apple turnover nuttiness with y'all. They adore each other. (Felix isn't wise to Patrick's cray-crayness yet...he'll still love him.)
Photo via MTV.com
Just in case you missed it...this isn't the first time that Jimmy Fallon has parodied the popular teen singer, he even got Justin Bieber to appear in one of his skits. This time, Jimmy/Justin sings about how the "kid is not his son". [Editor's Note: BRITTANI! What did I say about referencing "Billie Jean" ? - DivaJulia]
The verse from Black Thought is killer, and I laughed at Jimmy's dancing. After watching The Biebs on Dancing With The Stars the other night, I'd say Jimmy does a better Justin than he does now.
Written by: Brittani
Confession time. There was a time when I lived in Ventura, California wherein my BFF Joanne (no last names!!) sort of stalked Kenny Loggins--before the word "stalking" was used and determined to be rather uncool. Listen here, it was all in good fun, and frankly, it was one of the best gee-dee periods of my life. We were more like Lucy and Ethel looking for Richard Widmark's house and picking an orange from his tree.
We did awesomely crazy/funny crap like hunt for Kenny's house from the cover of Celebrate Me Home, THEN SNEAK INTO THE YARD TO TAKE PICTURES! He didn't live there anymore, but we were pretty proud of ourselves for finding the house, which led us to the house that he did live in at the time. Okay. No more info on that stuff.
I'm pleading The Fifth on most of the details of our
stalking admiration of Kenny because we don't need our pasts coming back to haunt us, do we, Joanne?
Just know that we traveled many miles in Joanne's dad's vintage 1962 (I think) yellow convertible Porsche up and down the coast from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles--mostly Santa Barbara. We thought we were pretty hot. Joanne was--and still is, anyway. And Jaaayzus, the concerts.
I was/am the big dork. I was rockin' the side ponytail (like Deb in Napoleon Dynamite) and I own it, so just don't rub it in.
BUT. Let's stay on task here (we all know I'm nearly incapable of managing distractions). I love that Mr. House at Danger Zone in Pooh Corner cusses like the rest of of us and has a sense of humor about his career in general.
Pretty gee-dee funny, if you ask me.