if you were going to skip a post, i’d totally recommend this one as not even i know what i’m talking about. also? i’m kind of nice in it. so there’s that. you’ve been warned.

As much as I revel in fancying myself in the right at all times, I must admit adherence to a certain biblical scripture that would imply self-acknowledgement of the fact that while a.) my life is seriously fucking cool, so no I don’t understand why you wouldn’t follow my platform clad footsteps, you are in fact free to choose path b, c, m,  7, or ♫

Alluded to passage that suggests a soul residing among all the snark? Something to do with stones and glass houses and hussies or something. Also, there was mention of sin, so I’m all over that.

The jist of Jesus’ quip as retold by a most certainly hell-bound lass?

‘Dude, feel free to judge others if you’re soul is sparklier than Edward Cullen’s prepubescent and awkwardly hairless chest, but otherwise, STFU. (See what he did there, he didn’t just say ‘hey, you guys all suck, so don’t judge her for being a whore,’ he made them think about their own actions and stuff).

100 some odd words ago, this was going to be one of two things, a short ditty about the drool inducing gratuitous male nudity on Lost, or a no doubt epic fucking diatribe about the magazine that shall not be named, but may just rhyme with neopolitan (I’ve got fro yo on the brain, shut up), as it has in fact turned out to be neither of these, but rather a rumination that reveals my weaknesses, all I can say is:

  1. I blame my uber-pretentious case of the Mondays on visiting the Getty yesterday and pretending I am culturally aware.
  2. I promise to wax poetic about each and every one of Sawyer’s chest hairs at some later date.
  3. I do in fact think this was all meant to connect to the idiocy published in a magazine we’ll just call “that one that always promises 3822687 NEW sex tips you’ve never heard but are all the same and really just involve horrific things like telling you to put your finger in his butt. Please dear god make it stop.” But as that obviously didn’t happen, we’ll save that for another day as well.

So to sum up this mess?

Choice.

We’re all allowed to choose. And whether I choose to live like Angelina’s sluttier sister circa 1998, Jesus circa 0020, Cher circa 1978, Mother Teresa, you know, her whole life, or June Cleaver circa some time that doesn’t exist because she’s NOT REAL, or Katie circa the present, stop throwing stones at me. and each other.

Every single person has their own path, their own story, their own secrets that would make you laugh. or cry (yes, even Mama T, who  I choose to believe was a saucy minx). So here’s a plea for understanding from an oft judged girl.

We’re all a big mess.  So play nice.

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~ by rubylocks on March 8, 2010.

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