(Another thrilling guest post courtesy of EyeRoller)
Beep beep sweet catpeepsters, it’s your favorite jackass du jour — ME, Donkey, coming to you from the far left lane of Life’s 101 Freeway! I’ve traded in my Benz for a wobbly pink “Princess” Huffy (more on that later), and I’m peddling like mad to fill you in and catch you up on ME. So toes pointed, shoulders back and teats out! It’s time to unpucker that lemon face, spread those cheeks, and say “CHEESE” like you mean it, haters!
To bring you up to speed, or for those who aren’t already annoyed to death/deaf with me, here’s the root of this shitshow in a nutshell:
And even though I’m an expert “expert,” I have weak points like every other vulnerable human girl-woman handling my life with the most grace and dignity I can muster. These non-epic failnesses include my inability to:
*Spend within my means
*Keep “FOOT” out of maw
I know you’re a tough crowd whose comments here I NEVER READ, so I’ll skip the pleasantries and get to the spelty meats of my matters, which is obviously a metaphor because I eat neither meat, nor spelt, nor gluten, nor meat that has eaten spelt nor gluten, nor spelt nor gluten that has consumed other spelt or gluten, because that would be outright spelt/gluten on spelt/gluten cannibalism lol, so get your minds and eyeballs out of my cluttered gutters and listen up — I’ve got plenty of nothing to fill you in on. It’s been a really stupid week that’s included many general failures, NEVER READING HERE, and the unbearable bondage of automobile ownership. We’ve got more to cover than 11 seasons of Fashion Week combined!
Firstly, I’m not the size of a pregnant woolly mammoth like a lot of people make me out to be, and yeah, maybe I do a little nip/tucking on iphoto, but I swear to The Great Twinkie in the sky, you’d be enthralled at what a few quick seconds can do. Contorting my posture and expressions, arching my swayback to the point of giving tweenaged Romanian gymnasts a run for their dismount money, and drastic lighting all combine to produce a few lucky photos choices out of thousands. See, here’s a pic of me RIGHT NOW AS I TYPE to all of my RDB readers. No, now is not my thinnest point of existence. But with the right “Art De La Posé Extremé,” my stomach is so flat I had to hire a Taskrabbit to come over and wash my cutting board on it!
To clarify, my poses are NOT vertically stretched in pre- or post- editing. And even if they were, big deal if my life is a series of visually compressed photos that cause me to bear a striking resemblance to Paula Abdul in her mid-90’s “Promise of a New Day” video? I do it for you, my pathetic public! NOW back to Taskrabbit… Did I mention I wanted to mention that I’m proud to mention I love this service! In addition to Anna D., you can hire even more rosy-cheeked, poverty-stricken part-time life-slaves like Emily M., who will carry your laundry from the dryer to your dresser, or kind-looking Alanna G, who will politely purchase fresh spinach for you on your credit card and place it gently in your refrigerator crisper with a fucking thankful smile.
I know many of my dear readers have questioned my involvement with Taskrabbit, so for the record let me say that while I like to pose for pictures with people who can afford to be big-time angel investors, the only affiliation I share with Taskrabbit is NOT for the record (don’t tell, dear readers, lol!): I work for them on the weekends pumping gas for handicapped people and driving an airport taxi for rich and busy people who pay me to do it! Here’s a pic of me Taskrabbiting. Don’t show anyone!
I call my legs “St. Paul” and “Minneapolis,” because they’re only 20 minutes apart and you can land a plane conveniently between them:
Meanwhile, in social media news: Knuckle-sandwich me in the schnoz with a hot pink satin rhinestone-embedded clutch, because thousands of new “people” decided to follow me on Twitter this week!!!! One of my digital admirers sent me pics of themselves as proof they exist. Here’s one:
“Hi Donkey. My name is Groucho M. and if you’d have me in your Twitter club I would NOT want to be a member, but I still think you’re a riot!”
See — the magic I cast over the universe on Miss Advised is FINALLY starting to resonate with the little people! Oh, and because a chunk of money from my trust fund went directly to a middle-man company that supplies algorithms meant to slowly up my profile and presence in relevant online marketplaces. Yep, I said, it, TRUST! Don’t ask me how much. Maybe not much, maybe a shitload, but either way, the only thing all your tiny, hate-filled, beeswaxen heads need to know is that THIS feels good against my winking, wrinkled donkeyhole:
But wait — remember in May when my reality show was airing and I tweeted about signing a 33-month lease on a new 2012 black Mercedes C class for $450/month and thousands of dollars/year in insurance? Well don’t hate, it was only in preparation for my huge guaranteed television success! Only 28 months left to go in the lease, but surprise surprise, I changed my mind because I’m a flake who lives according to the demands of an evil princess residing at the top of an unlit tower in the back of my brain. Along with that luxury car and paying $2500/month for a condo I’m never at, I won’t even go into the thousands of dollars worth of mini syringes of face filler I require to stay afloat … Yes, in total I’m spending half of six figures on nothing. Turns out I only drive that car to Dr. Bobby’s office five days a month and I want out of this deal because I’m sick of this town and this car and I need a new gig NOW, one in which I’ll get paid six figures simply to exist in all my adorable ME-ness!
Breaking news: I had a huge realization. YOU DON’T NEED A CAR WHEN YOU LIVE IN NEW YORK CITY! (Although, let’s be serious, as if I’d ever ride the subway!! That’s for the little smelly people who don’t have fuck-you money that I most certainly SHOULD have so I’ll just live as though I DO have it):
Anyway, to summarize my saga as a car owner:
I leased this:
When I should’ve purchased this:
Because I wanted (and fucking well deserve!!) to feel like this:
But I just ended up feeling like this:
I bitched and bitched about my own stupidity on Twitter:
“One of the best parts of New York that I didn’t fully appreciate when I lived there: absolutely no need for car ownership.”
“I knew it was bad – but I had no idea having a car would suck financially THIS MUCH. I honestly wish I hadn’t gotten one at all.”
I’ll admit, the funniest reader reply to my whining was from my close friend, Mia Marino, who pointed out that yes, a new Mercedes Benz costs money:
@JuliaAllison Shoot you need one in LA! I’m all confused where everyone is these days, but yes cars are expensive until you pay them off.
Ok ok, I get it dear readers, but enough is enough. Everyone is so mean to me! Can you believe I’ve even received calls and emails from fans like this:
“Have a seat, Julia. Your parents asked me to have a little talk with you.”
Yep, I’ll probably have to give up my OMG Mercedes OMG, even though in last month’s inc.com article I said this profoundly intelligent thing: “You have a great brand when people immediately associate a positive term with that brand — the term you want people to associate with your brand. Take Mercedes: If you think ‘luxury,’ it’s happy.”
Now is the time in this update when I thank one of my dear readers. This week’s winner? I’m looking at you Brayella. With a flop reality show on my back, reality setting in about the sheer cruelty of a world that has failed to recognize me as the adorable mega-wealthy celebrity I deserve to be, and basic life skills I find baffling looming before me, you posted a pic that has inspired me to give up everything and move my entire life from Los Angeles, CA to Hammock County, USA. My plan is to rotate all my photos in post-production so I like look I’m upright and living a human life, while really I’ll be spending 169 hours per week on my ass, in a net, posting MC Hammer lip dubs from between two trees:
*YES, by “net” I mean both the internet AND a woven hammock
*YES, by “trees” I mean two perennial trunks AND my own ears
Oh-oh oh oh oh-oh-oh. Everybody STOP. HAMMOCK TIME:
There’s much more, but I’m so tired that a gallon of the ‘Tox right smack dab between the peepers couldn’t keep my face open right now, so for my grand finale, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, where I *POOF* DISAPPEAR, I proudly present the weekly update in the “Notice How Much I’ve Really Changed!” department:
LOL but really though, has anyone noticed I haven’t been blowing up my tweethole about Pencil lately and hey, at least I’m trying to take a hint and put a lid on my shameless self-promotion as an “expert expert expert” that got me further into this fucking nightmare mess I call my life, once I could tell the world at large wasn’t falling for it. Gold stars for me, right? Uh, right? OK, fine, then let’s focus on me having to guzzle a fistful of Lexapro before I go to a shopping mall — *UGH* — and the fact that plastic-fern-bars like TGIFriday’s make me feel like this:
“Why are bars and malls the two most popular places for Americans to gather en masse? It’s really depressing.”
Finally, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention RBD had a surprise celebrity cameo appearance this week, when the “Mom in a Minivan” I verbally assaulted in a Trader Joe’s parking lot one time (Oops… ‘Member Dat?– ) dropped in to say “Hi.” Minivan Mom: It was so good to hear from you, and I would’ve responded to your post directly on this site, but only problem is I NEVER READ HERE. Mystery mom: Couldn’t you just have contacted me directly like I did with you that day in that parking lot, when I screamed obscenities at you and your children for your crime of stopping your car to wait for someone to pull out of the spot you were waiting for? If you’d send me your address, I’d be happy to to apologize by auto-replying to you with a 10% discount code off your next purchase from Cheesy Skillets, the Honeybaked Ham variety.
So, dear members of my gargantuan readership, until next time– Love, light, and defaulted car payment wishes!