A Challenge thats Only Hard for Me.

As a few people know, I just had a little birthday happen to me. This shouldn't mean anything, and really, it doesn't. Everyone you know was born, so is there a reason to celebrate something that isn't special at all? Perhaps the specialness (didn't think that was a word, but spellcheck is down with that shit) of birthdays lies in the fact that they are the single thing everyone, fucking everyone, has in common. Philosophy on your ass, and you weren't even expecting it.

Beyond my feelings about birthdays, I've decided this milestone is an opportunity to change my life up a bit, so I guess I'll take it. Let me preface this insignificant change of pace with this: I LOVE MEAT. So much. I am almost positive that at one point I said I'd like to lay in a pile of ground up bacon. This still might be true, although I don't really want to fuck with PETA over that. But all joking aside, I am a voracious carnivore. And never have I even considered limiting my meat intake, as I once considered it the bane of my existence.

To most, what I plan on doing is easy, and really nothing to write about, but moderation isn't by best skill, so this is a big deal for me. As of yesterday, I will only be consuming meat at a maximum rate of once per week. Fish doesn't count, obviously, gotta get them Omega-3s. Most likely, this dose of meat will either be brisket from my work, or a double double at In N Out.

This isn't about the animals, and its not about any retarded weight-loss bullshit. For a week last december, my roommate challenged me to go vegan. This wasn't the most pleasant experience, as I struggled to consume enough calories every day, but the absence of meat made me feel significantly lighter, higher energy, and healthier. (oddly enough). So here goes some good old discipline, not entirely cutting something out of my life, but learning to enjoy it only in moderation, like a healthy fuckin adult.


Holy hell.

DIY Dip Dyed Tights

Wanna get all Martha Stewart with me? I did this little project a few weeks ago, so I guess its about time to share it.

To accompany me on this crafty adventure, you'll need the following:

1 pair of light colored tights
Black dye (I used iDye Poly, which is all special for polyester and nylon)
1 pot or sauce pan
2 clothespins
A kitchen
Good music

Oh look, I'm taking process pictures, making all of this hella (yes, hella) easy for you.

Start by filling yo' pot with water. Add dye. I used probably 1/4 of the packet, which worked well.  

Now use the clothespins to mark dem tights where you'd like the dip dye effect to occur. Mine is about halfway up the thigh.
 

Tights, meet dye. Put them in until just below the clothespins, as the dye will bleed upwards a bit. Important: don't let the tights touch the outside of the pot, it is hot and they will burn.

Let the water boil for about 30 minutes. The wait is kind of a bitch, so turn on an episode of South Park to pass the time. (This step is absolutely required). After the times up, remove tights from dye and rinse thoroughly.

 

Let those babies dry, then wear the shit out of them.

Perhaps at some point, I'll take a better picture of these, but this was the least skanky way I could figure to take a picture of my legs. But hey, its for learning, yo.

Anthony's _________

If you live around televisions, newspapers, or other human beings, you already know: the Weiner got fucked. Well, actually, the Weiner repeatedly fucked himself. Which Weiner do I speak of? Anthony Weiner, of course, who, up until the past few weeks, was one of my favorite people that I don't actually know. (And I hate pretty much all famous people, excluding musicians, so this is a high honor in my book.)  I can't begin to express the deep, unrelenting disappointment I've felt because of Anthony Weiner's actions. But let me try.

First off: WHAT THE FUCK WEINER? what. the. fuck. you were awesome, you were a fucking hero. You were championing the fight against republican bullshit, and I loved you. We liberals loved you. You could've been it, you could've been the person to take this battle to where it needs to go, but no, you had to put a picture of your cock on TWITTER, of all fucking places.
I have many issues with this, but lets start with the obvious. You're a public figure, meaning, more than any other person's, your privates are just that, fucking private. What were you thinking? (In a Chris Hansen voice, of course). You were a congressman, you should've thought twice, thrice, and a fourth god damn time about putting a picture of your junk anywhere near the internet. Didn't you learn that already? Also, twitter? Come on, man, if you were really trying to direct message someone on twitter, just get the lady's email, like the gentleman you should've been.
Secondly, at what point did you assume that anyone would want to see a picture of your dick? And I'm not talking shit here, really, I loved you. If you didn't have a wife, you'd be on my politicians to do list. But back to the point, and I'd like to take this time to make an announcement to every male reading this. Get ready, because your world will be rocked.

YOUR DICK DOESN'T LOOK GOOD IN PICTURES.

And before we begin to conclude that perhaps only Weiner's weiner doesn't photograph well, let me tell you a brief anecdote. Last fall, I was on the losing side of a prank war. (If you're reading this, Max, well, I just admitted defeat.) The concluding prank in said war was actually a fluke on my part. As revenge for saran wrapping my car, I decided to post an ad for my rival on the "casual encounters" section of craigslist. As those who have posted here before know, you cannot type a phone number in posts under this section. I, not being very craigslist-savvy, didn't know how to get around this and instead, entered Max's email, thinking that at least his email would blow up with men wanting to get in on that action. Instead, Max was emailed a confirmation of the post, thus foiling my plot, and letting him know exactly my next move in our epic battle. I was completely fucked, except I didn't know it until the middle of the night, when I awoke to the sound of my phone, and a text that read: "hey cutie, you still looking for that late night fun?" Immediately, I knew what happened. In the following 24 hours, I received over a hundred texts, a several missed calls, and a couple dozen pictures. Pictures of, you guessed it, dicks. Up until a couple months ago, I was still sporadically receiving dick pictures. In total, I think it was nearly 100 of them, so I can tell you, without hesitation, that the cock is the least photogenic part of your body.  Regardless of how it looks in person, it'll look fucked up in photograph form, so just don't fucking do it. I'll repeat myself, yet again, in hopes that this message is thouroughly drilled into your minds. Do not, under any circumstances, take a picture of your cock, and send it to a member of the opposite (fairer, perhaps) sex. Thanks.

But back to el Weiner. Seriously, dude, just stop taking pictures of yourself. Remember that time when you took a picture of yourself in the mirror at the fucking congressional gym? Who does that? Oh yeah, you. Did you never have that moment where you thought, "Hey, what if these pictures get into the wrong hands?" or "Perhaps, as a member (hah) of congress, I should be a little more discerning with the content I decide to put on the internet." Apparently you didn't. And remember that time when you said that you couldn't say for certain whether the dick in the photo was yours or not? Really?

Honestly, (ex) Congressman Weiner, I hope that you bounce back from this. And theoretically, you should; many people have gotten caught doing worse things. Technically, you didn't even cheat on your wife. (If you were my husband, though, I'd have your fucking sac for this one). But lets be honest here, every republican is stoked on this, it's as if their biggest opponent just killed himself and they didn't even have to ask him to. So good job, ruining your chances at being that healthcare champion I thought you were. I'm not mad, I'm disappointed.


love, rachel


p.s. the gentleman is still correct in sitting.

a soundtrack of sorts

Fun fact: my mood is entirely dependent on the amount of exercise I get. Which means I've probably been quite cruel lately, as I've been completely slacking on the working out front. The past few days have seen me trying to get back into the habit of exercising regularly, which hopefully will continue tomorrow. This is one of the few times I've had trouble with discipline, but I want to blame it on the fact that the gym I've been going to recently sucks balls. big old balls. If only there were hiking spots close to where I live/If only I had enough time to take said hikes. Perhaps on one of these days off.

The key (for me) to a successful and enjoyable workout, minus the awesome people watching/bad tattoo spotting, is a good playlist. The gym is the one place that I won't listen to most of my favorite bands. Most doom is just too slow to try to work out to, I'd probably just be standing motionless on the elliptical if I was listening to sleep or earth. This being said: I present the tracks that are currently getting me to the shitty Santa Monica 24 hour fitness. Angry is really the only way to work out. hah, that's pretty funny (ironic perhaps?) in the context of the first line of this post.





Remember when I said I had a post with actual content coming? Yeah, this isn't it. I'm just too tired to formulate a good political argument right now, and I'd rather keep it trivial today. Boring, I know, but I'll get you riled up next time.

I promise.

hey vanity

In a break from my usual doom/sludge/stoner metal/drone routine, I've been listening to a ton of Deftones lately. Thanks to Melina for introducing me to them. In the past, I have resisted music in which the lead singer screams rather than sings, as often it is a cop out way to appear hard. Not Deftones though, their lead singer, Chino Moreno, has probably my favorite voice ever. In fact,  I'd be very down for him to sing me to sleep, then start screaming to wake me up. And then I'd be mad about being woken up, so he'd have to start singing with that sexy melodic voice again.

Also, I might be seeing them live next week! So stay tuned for some shitty iphone pictures of that. In addition, I'm working on a post with actual content, rather than fucking-with-photobooth-pictures and me talking about bands that everyone else discovered years ago.

Peace, loves

Of Cacti & Goblins

I am, without question, the worst blogger (yuck) of all time. I think I've neglected this thing for over a week now. no good, friends, no good at all. Despite my not writing anything for a while, I have been doing things. Actually, I've been busy as fuck. Because fuck is really a busy dude. Anyhow, my friend Shannon, also known as one of the few people from high school that I still communicate with, stayed at my house for the past week, while looking for a job and an apartment in LA. I am unbelievably stoked about the summer adventures that will ensue with her being here.  Mostly we've been drinking tea and going cactus shopping.

Yes, I've begun a cactus collection. Perhaps as a substitute for a pet. A little less cute, but significantly less cleanup required. Here are my super fucking adorable cacti.

Also during Shannon's stay, she introduced me to the pure hilarity that is Wizard People, Dear Reader. The entirety of the first Harry Potter movie, narrated in the best possible way. Snape is always referred to as 'she,' while Ron the Bear and good old HP chill in class with 'what the fuck type expressions.' This blog won't allow me to embed an of the videos (copyright or some shit), but I highly reccomend watching this chapter. "Oh shit, nerding out on Harry Potter," you say. Yeah, I've got a fucking blog, which should act as definitive proof that I'm a huge nerd, even without that wizard reference.

Speaking of wizards, well, actually not really, because I'm speaking of Goblins. Orange Goblin to be exact. I saw Orange Goblin at the Troubadour the other night, along with some other sweet bands: Sasquatch, Naam, and The Gates of Slumber. The show was ridiculously good, especially Orange Goblin introducing themselves: "We're Orange Goblin, and we're here to play you some heavy fucking metal." (In a british accent, of course).

turns out the iphone isn't the best tool for pictures at shows, but it is by far the most convenient and will continue to be my go to. I cannot even begin to describe how sore my neck is from this show. Bangin' of the head is the only dancing I do sans two buck chuck.

And with that, I bid you adieu, and wish you all the heaviest wednesday night of your lives.