So, the time is feeling about right for my sort-of-annual epistle in which I make unreasonable requests of you. And I have been working on this letter for three entire days, so I hope you’re impressed.
Here is what I want for Christmas. And you better deliver. Um, please. I’ve mostly been sort of good, except for that time I went shopping for a yo-yo at Tiffany’s with money that didn’t technically belong to me. (But, actually, now that I think about it, that was before Christmas of 2006 so it doesn’t count towards naughtiness points for this Christmas.)
Anyhow, list:
1. Cute button down shirts. Specifically, cute button down shirts, that will, in fact, button down over my boobs. You have NO IDEA how hard these are to find, and how tragic it is for me, when they are basically all I want to wear. Also, cardigans.
2. Please cure what appears to be the chronic ADD from which I appear to be suffering that makes it very hard for me to sit down and read a journal article in one sitting. Alternatively, please make my professors stop assigning Spivak.
3. Please permanently change the ending of the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s so that it more accurately reflects the (superior) ending of the original novella, in which Holly Golightly does not end up falling in love with an emasculated George Peppard, but rather, runs away to Brazil because she doesn’t have to belong to anybody, god damn it. If you could also excise all of Mickey Rooney’s scenes, that would be good, too. (Clearly Tiffany’s is on my mind today for unknown reasons, but ours is not to question why.)
4. The Twin Peaks Gold Box edition. Essential to living a fulfilling life.
5. Please get rid of hippy-dippy horrible earth goddess woman on Project Runway because she reminds me too much of an unfortunate former colleague of mine who may or may not have been allergic to the atmosphere. And, I mean, clearly the only reason she is even on the show at all is because they need a fucking crazy person to make people watch. Well, I’m not buying it, Santa. Do something. (Also, while you’re at it: Chris or Victorya should win, Christian should get a goddamn haircut and Sweet P should change her name to something not totally stupid.)
6. Reproductive rights, freedoms, justice and comprehensive sex ed for all! (Also, Santa, just to let you in on a new secret – I have a new blogging project developing in the depths of my mind that I might try to launch in the new year that will help me fulfill my long-lost calling to be a feminist sex educator, so watch for it! It will be beautiful.)
7. Since you’ve completely failed to deliver me a unicorn for two years running, this year I am upping the ante. I want a unicorn/pegasus hybrid. I want it to be lavender in colour, or perhaps magenta, with rainbow feathered-wings. I want it to have the strength of ten normal unicorns (which, in turn, is roughly equivalent to the strength of 27 robot gorillas, just to give you a sense of scale). I want it to leave a trail of glittering magical dust in its wake wherever it goes. And when I ride my unicorn-pegasus to school every day and park it on the roof of the Schoenberg Music Building, then, and only then, will I be the coolest kid in school, whom everybody will want to sit with in the cafeteria at lunch. Ah, yes, Santa. Please make all my dreams come true.
I’ll even make you cupcakes.
Love,
Alexandra
Yesterday I received an ancient countertop Mixmaster that mostly works. My friends should be prepared to eat nothing but cupcakes and baked goods for the rest of their lives.
I have the exact same problems with button-down/up shirts and cardigans. They’re the only things I want to wear but trying to find ones that don’t gape at the boobs is almost hopeless. It’s one of the only major downfalls of the big breastedness (that and, you know, bra shopping and bralessness) …
I’m not all that busty and those tops still don’t fit right. I’ve settled with not wearing a colourful bra if I intend on wearing a button top, but it’s still frustrating.
wear vests. problem solved.
Except then you’re wearing a vest. Which is a problem in and of itself.