Some jokester -- or maybe some combination of my online ordering habits* -- signed me up for More
magazine, and once I got over the sting of it, I realized it's actually a pretty OK mag to read on the treadmill at the gym (I mean, there's only so much that's readable in the sweaty magazine racks by the hand sanitizer; I can't do Glamour/Cosmo/DimSlutsMonthly
are all about spa trips and sad lo-cal recipes, Sports Illustrated
gots too much football right now ... I'm down to Real Simple
and the occasional rando Entertainment Weekly
if it's not too destroyed, besides which More
puts Julia Louis-Dreyfus on the cover and she's my spirit animal). I'm an old lady, fuck off.
Anyway -- but in an article on How To Get A Job These Days, The Way The Kids Are Doing It, someone on that magazine put in there a word which almost made me haemorrhage** out the earholes: Twesume
, but with Twitter
getting his junk up way too close to the tight rear end of resume's $135 Lululemon yoga pants.
[checks the pantry] Nope, I'm all out of can. Nothin left but a pallet of can't. And those're expired.
*Including but not limited to: Lands End (kids' clothes), Ready for Hillary, Wendy Davis for Governor, Barnes & Noble, Boden, Banana Republic, Sur la Table, Wine.com, Planned Parenthood, Rolling Jubilee, the school uniform store, Ultimate Pilates Workouts ...
**so badly that I had to spell it the British way
Labels: and if'n I drop I reckon I'll be in motion, cryin' amazacrazy, fuckyeahbeingagrownup, I can't, the horror ... the horror, where is my mind? waaay out there on the water -- see it swimming