I think every little girl one day dreams of being a fashion magazine editor. The glamour, the celebrity and the image that comes along with it is pretty damn appealing. Not to mention, writing and editing pieces on designers, beautiful clothes, shoes, bags … for some of us it would be a dream-come-true.
And then that little girl watched the season premier of Stylista last night and her dream was shattered. Caddy bitches, huge egos, image scrutinization, drama, drama and more drama — this all defines the fashion industry. A thick skin (and a pair of skinny jeans) is what you’ll need to survive.
Now as someone who isn’t really into the fashion thang, I found last night’s show ridiculous and comical.
First thought, “Who the hell names their child Cologne?”
Second thought, “Ew, Megan’s a bitch.” Keep in mind, this stance was established within the first 3 minutes and grew to, “Ew, I hate Megan AND Dyshaun.” (I think I’ll refer to these two awful people as the “Bitch Twins” from this point forward because somehow they fell in love with each other’s down right nasty personalities.)
Third thought, “Anne Slowey walks funny in her shoes. Shouldn’t fashion editors be high-heel masters? I know I am.” Read More »





Getting ready to throw yourself back into that world of dorming? And do you care about the environment? Well, good luck. Being green, in some dorms, is pretty freakin’ hard. Recycling bins are nowhere to be found, resources are being wasted left and right and most of the kids around you don’t care.
I’m not a vegetarian, but I like to eat like one. I’m very picky with meats (I don’t eat seafood, beef, or pork); I try to eat healthy (even though I typically consume the calories I cut throughout the week in weekend drinking binges); and, most importantly, I’m a horrible cook, so I’d rather microwave a faux-chicken cutlet than get salmonella from undercooking a juicy piece of pollo.
After hearing about
In my time, I’ve made fun of Maxim. I got a kick out of the chicken-greased girls on the covers, the silly headlines, the boobs-and-beer aesthetic of it all. My understanding was that Maxim addressed its readers as if they were lecherous frat boys with grades that didn’t pass muster, incapable of understanding any statement more complex than “me want see chest bouncy-bounce on dance girls.” I found this hilarious.
We pick up where
Recently, during a rather absurd evening involving a really sh*tty club and free bottles of Grey Goose, I found that I had somehow misplaced my cellular phone.