The Bravosphere is no stranger to dominating the Internet with disgraceful behavior. Jen Shah’s arrest, Scandoval, and the indignity of watching Michael Rappaport eat spaghetti. And if it teaches society a lesson along the way—like don’t defraud the elderly, don’t cheat on your girlfriend with her friend, or please for the love of God, just cut your pasta into bite-sized pieces, then all the better. This Summer House friendship fallout between Ciara Miller and Amanda Batula because of West Wilson has taught us another valuable lesson: NEVER TRUST AN ADULT BLONDE MAN.

Think about it.

Boris Johnson. Spencer Pratt. Friedrich Nietzsche. Dax Shepard. Jake Paul. Neil Patrick Harris. Chris Pratt. James Corden. Macklemore.

What do all these men have in common? Obviously, they’re blonde. But what else? Marginal talent and intelligence at best. Some are good-looking in a “barely” kind of way. Insatiable need to be the center of attention at all times with minimal charisma to back it up. Possibly breastfed until they were 17.

But most of all, they all have sinister energy on par with…well…adult male twins. Sorry, but those guys freak me out too. Especially the Winklevoss twins with their matching outfits like some Laura Ashley mommy-and-me photo-op.

And now we add to the list West Wilson.

Amanda was already going through a divorce with another “adult” blonde man, Kyle Cooke. I genuinely don’t know what those two have ever had to talk about, besides Kyle himself. Truly, Amanda has only ever talked about Kyle and how much she hates him, while Kyle is just cocky. He’s fun at parties and aggressively handsome. The girls I know who think Kyle is hot are lesbians and bisexual—they don’t really see the point in men besides being good-looking. They don’t care about ugly-hot or hot-ugly men.

Personally, I think Amanda and West are perfect for each other. They’re not the worst thing to come out of Summer House — Jesse Solomon’s “singing career” takes the cake on that one. They’re both hot people who are vaguely musty, but they get away with it because they’re hot. When either of them is backed into a corner for doing something fucked up, they whine, “I feel badddddd,” when it’s like, no you don’t. And most of all, they both want to be Ciara.

It’s obvious why Amanda wants to be Ciara, and it goes beyond the fact that Ciara is gorgeous in a way that’s so confounding. Like, the kind of beauty that rarely comes along but, when it does, the planets, genetics, and any spiritual or medical factors align themselves in a way that’s precise and intentional—the same way an estranged family plans a seating arrangement for major holiday dinners and weddings.

But on top of that, Ciara has a backbone, intelligence, wit, and charisma. She’s a model and a nurse, plus she’s one of the rare influencers that shines while doing red carpet interviews. She’s well-adjusted and self-aware, and usually those are qualities I detest in a reality star—but for Ciara, I’ll allow it.

Amanda dating West because she wants to be Ciara is no different than Cassie dating Nate on Euphoria because she wants to be Maddie—the self-possessed, captivating girl who actually developed a personality. And it shouldn’t be lost on us that both Ciara and Maddie are women of color.

Then there’s West. Charming, affable, perpetually-and-inexplicably-slightly sweaty West. His sense of humor and style hover one step above the guys who wear funny t-shirts to get a laugh: “Clit Commander,” “FBI: Female Body Inspector.” You often see them lingering by the jukebox at a sports bar, paying to play Africa by Toto to finally demonstrate a semblance of personality for the first time all night.

West is an outspoken liberal, and moral thirst-trapping has been one of the ways he started to win back fans after his breakup with Ciara. He also seems to cozy up to Black culture a lot on Instagram: Michael Jordan crying memes, streetwear, hand gestures with zero cultural significance—but at least he’s the star of the group photo, right? West is also (shocker) a white guy who works for Complex, which should tell you everything you need to know.

I can’t help but be reminded of the Sam Rockwell monologue from White Lotus, where he talks about wanting to be an Asian girl. I literally have a t-shirt of the monologue. You can buy it here.

West never had the emotional language to describe his feelings for Ciara because he’s too stunted to be self-aware enough to realize he doesn’t want to date her—he just wants to be in her orbit. She’s desired, magnetic, and can back her shit up. He wants to experience what she experiences — the fanfare, the fetishization, the adulation — without having to go the trials and tribulations of developing that kind of identity.

West and Amanda dating shocked Bravo fans, but at the end of the day, it makes perfect sense. It’s the only way Amanda’s anticipated meteoric rise to stardom—like Ariana Madix’s during Scandoval—could possibly have shaken out. Amanda had years to build something for herself: connections, a platform. And what did we get? A basic bikini collab with South Moon Under, a brand I forgot existed. Just this season, Amanda made the uncomfortable remark that Kyle only became a DJ to spite her. No, Kyle took a viral moment and capitalized on it. It’s his lack of effort that’s why their marriage failed, not him putting in all that effort solely to piss her off.

Amanda and West are going into this relationship knowing full well that Ciara will always hang over their heads—even after she blocked them and moved on. And they don’t care. They will always be consumed with Ciara. Even during farty, gassy, post-Mukbang sex, Amanda will be lying in the fuckpuddle while West hogs the covers, and they’ll both be thinking about Ciara. And Ciara will forget they ever existed while she’s making the most of the inevitable spike in her career that’ll cement her as a celebrity instead of a niche Bravo castmember.

Virtue signaling has been talked about to death — I get it, and I even think there are instances that are well intentioned, albeit a bit corny. Like Sophia Bush having a lavish wedding that was entirely dedicated to advocacy, but the Vogue coverage made her seem… exhausting. It’s really fantastic that she hired exclusively Black-owned companies for the entire weekend and raised a ton of money, but adding in that her ring was fair-trade gold and having all of your guests go on a historic walking tour of Tulsa in the middle of the summer seems like punishment. I can’t help but speculate she’s doing all of this to compensate for the fact that One Tree Hill was a show about basketball only to have, like, two Black characters consistently featured, and one was named Skillz.

Another example is Dispatch getting back together to sing “The General” in Russian once Putin invaded Ukraine to inspire Russian soldiers not to fight. Was Putin shaking in his boots? No, but maybe he felt incentivized to join his local ultimate frisbee team.

But there is one kind of virtue signaling that really gets under my skin, and that’s moral thirst-trapping. Moral thirst-trapping is a phenomenon among men whose public-facing personas are progressive in a way that’s equal parts wholesome and swoonworthy, but who mistreat the people they claim to advocate for behind the scenes. It has been plaguing the cultural zeitgeist to pique the interest of women — even lesbians are into it.

A TikTok video from NYC-based creator Sophie Wood called out an NYC influencer for moralizing about respecting women on TikTok while allegedly having a history of cheating on his girlfriends. I have, like, 90% of NYC influencers blocked at this point, so I don’t really know who she’s talking about. I don’t even have to know who she’s referring to because I can guarantee that his comment sections are abundant with comments like “Hot guys are always feminists,” or “Protect this man!” or “He deserves a podcast!”

Of course, people can change, but it’s a bold move to come on the internet and post a video about misogyny when you know that you should probably sit this one out given your history, but you decide to do it anyways because you know that girls will be really, really excited that an attractive guy is speaking out.

After all, remember when Walton Goggins and his much younger costar Aimee Lou Wood blocked each other on Instagram amid allegations of them having an affair while filming White Lotus? To curry favor online, Goggins referred to God as a “she” during a talk show interview. It absolutely worked, because it hasn’t even been a year since there was talk of his infidelity, and Reddit threads were blowing up with girls lusting over him when he showed support for Zohran Mamdani.

And look, there are ethically muddy people who are at least on the right side of politics and human rights, and I actually do appreciate their votes. It’s really easy to wear a “Feel the Bern” T-shirt or sign a petition. But to make it your entire platform is where it gets especially dicey.

I know we’re all sick of the Justin Baldoni and Blake Lively drama. Personally, I don’t care enough to sift through all the legal paperwork posted online because my take is that they’re both absolutely nuts. But before It Ends With Us, Justin wasn’t even really that well known enough to accrue the rabid fanbase that he has now. His only notable role was playing Rafael Solano on Jane the Virgin. If he was known for anything, it was more likely his advocacy for feminism and mental health. He hosted podcasts, he led a TED Talk, he built a following online.

When the news broke of Lively’s lawsuit against Baldoni, the internet was an echo chamber of women in shock that a guy this demonstratively altruistic was actually an entitled, creepy weirdo behind the scenes.

But I wasn’t shocked at all. I saw all the signs: his over-the-top proposal video to his now-wife that was 30 minutes long and made public, the way he always talked with just the right amount of sincerity to the point where it seemed formulaic and affected, and, of course, that fucking man-bun.

@justinbaldoniSend this to a man in your life! @TED Talks #masculinity #vulnerability #positivemasculinity #healing

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I know all the signs because I have my own experience with my ex moral thirst-trapping. He blew up on the internet for espousing views like Mamdani, but the way he treats women is worse than Cuomo. His comment sections — and the comment sections of the talk shows he appeared on — were blowing up with takes like “He’s so hot!” and “He’s an amazing person and we need more people like him!” and “He should be president!” I kind of agree with the president comment because he and Trump have some things in common besides their desire to be famous.

It’s not like I’ll ever come out against him, but if I ever did, there are so many women who will gladly champion him. He’s got a digital footprint that makes Matt McGorry look like Dave Portnoy, while mine is me talking about reality television and oversharing about the time I tried to give myself a Brazilian while high on Ambien and fell asleep with the waxing strip on. He’s openly leftist, I’m politically homeless. He would call me out for saying “homeless” instead of “unhoused,” and I would call him out for meeting his current girlfriend when she was 22 and he was 31.

It’s really easy to pretend to be a good person, and it’s not like we have time to excavate every left-leaning guy’s personal history. It takes a special kind of narcissism to moral thirst-trap, but it also takes a special kind of narcissism to write a Substack that comes up with a new value system for men everywhere to adhere to. I really shouldn’t be trusted to be the one who has to police these men, or to be an authority on anything, ever. After all, I’m a white girl with an ill-advised hamsa tattoo, and I’m still haunted by the fact that I went as slutty Pocahontas when I was a teenager.

But if I had to come up with a solution just for the sake of drawing this essay to a conclusion, I would say men just shouldn’t be allowed to use social media.

Even The Cut is having trouble staying on the cutting edge of the cultural zeitgeist and giving us fresh content for covens of Lingua Franca liberals to dissect at their brunches, cocktail parties, and members’ clubs. Do any of us really want to continue talking about how terrible of a husband Dax Shepard is to Kristen Bell? The Cut seems to think so, as they recently used their images from Dax’s circlejerk podcast for their latest essay about the all too common trope of women having husbands who hate them. Dax’s cohost Monica Padman and Kristen’s costar Justine Lupe both had something to say about it:

Dax and Kristen are holding us emotionally hostage as we unwillingly bear witness to this psychosexual power game, and I just need to know what safe word we have to scream to get them to stop. I realized how obnoxious they are when I was a teenager, reading an interview with Kristen where she said her favorite thing is to meditate at sunrise with Dax and stare into each other’s eyes for hours at a time. She also talked about how she makes compost salads as an easy way to stay trim. Sickening. It was in a magazine, so this conversation might as well have been etched in an ancient scroll.

Why is The Cut playing into Dax and Kristen’s public sexual warfare? This is exactly what these exhibitionists want. Dax made headlines this week for admitting he didn’t do anything for Valentine’s Day — not for his wife, not for his mom (whom he calls his “first Valentine,” because of course he has mommy issues). He has the financial means to outsource it completely. He knows what he’s doing. At this point, the real crime is anyone who cares what an adult man named DAX has to say.

Kristen absolutely knows what she signed up for. For perspective, her first boyfriend was Matthew Morrison from Glee — they dated in college. You guys, this is her romantic baseline in adult life:

By the way, I checked and they were dating in 2001. Really makes you think, huh?

Anyways, back to The Cut, because you guys need to be interrogated. Did you run out of tastefully cunty, painfully aspirational women to lionize this week? No hyperfixation on a prestige miniseries starring a tastefully cunty, painfully aspirational woman who takes tastefully cunty contemplative walks while wearing a painfully aspirational wardrobe? Is there no wellness empire or buzzy non-profit to do an exposé on? No random Mounjaro side effects to sensationalize? No divorcée who left her loveless marriage and now leads luxury kundalini kegel retreats in Mustique? Has Jacob Elordi not been babygirl enough for you lately? No red carpet moments or pap walks with just enough queerbaiting or genderbending to herald as “iconic?” And is this diatribe why I can’t even get an interview for a part-time blogger position with you?

Just write another “hit piece” like the West Village girl one. I know all the West Village girls pretended to hate it the same way they pretend to hate Ozempic allegations.

It’s Carolyn, not Caroline.

I don’t plan on watching Love Story because it feels like it was done in poor taste, especially since the JFK Jr’s remaining family members aren’t happy with it and Tatiana Schlossberg passed away so recently. But influencers have made all this CBK discourse so obnoxious, so I feel obligated to chime in.

@carlyweinstein1Can we pls discuss what her go to perfume would be today

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CBK was a fashion publicist, and I can imagine she’d be genuinely unnerved by how print media and Fashion Week have deteriorated thanks to influencers who can’t even pronounce her name correctly. It feels icky to admit I come from a WASPy background, but I do—and it’s kind of hilarious to watch these girls try to emulate WASP culture. They’re so on-the-nose with it that they look like their moms dressed them for picture day or boarding school interviews. I remember gagging when a friend came back for homecoming weekend wearing brand-new Sperry’s, trying to fit in with people from her first-year analyst job. I’m not saying non-WASPs can’t wear Sperry’s or other WASPy staples, but it looks off because these things are baked into that upbringing over generations—sailing lessons, tennis interclubs, prep school dress codes.

CBK worked in PR for Calvin Klein in the ’90s, and you can see those elements baked into her style as well. Meanwhile, some influencers don’t actually develop style—they seem to have no identity or purpose beyond social media. Their pathological conspicuous consumption is the exact opposite of CBK’s essence.

Kanye West doesn’t get how gravity or plumbing work.

Kanye West is too far gone to realize that he’s not entitled to a massive platform. The only thing I ever want to hear about in relation to Kanye is his ongoing legal battle over his money pit Malibu mansion. Also, seeing that Milo Yiannopoulos is Kanye’s spokesperson during the trial was a jumpscare.

For those who don’t know, Kanye purchased a home designed by Tadao Ando. Remember that name next time you want to sound cultured at an art gallery opening! Anyways, Kanye purchased the home for $57 million with the intention of renovating it, which is already bizarre because it’s an architecturally significant house. He planned on replacing the stairs with ramps that were dangerously steep instead because he has a fear of stairs. This man is so delusionally entitled that he doesn’t even think the laws of gravity apply to him. No, seriously, even Kanye’s failed school Donda Academy had no stairs. Truly all Kim had to do this entire time to get away from him was just…walk upstairs.

Kanye’s currently being sued by his contractor for his insane demands for the home, which included removing all of the toilets, and he thought “taking a number two in a hole in the ground” would be a totally acceptable alternative. I guess this shows how little Kanye spends time with his children, because North would absolutely not be having it. She would sooner go off with Kourtney, who gets insulted at the very mention of sugar or gluten, or Rob, who gets insulted at the very mention of a job. My heart breaks for those kids because literally how epic would it be to recreate the So Little Time theme on that gorgeous Malibu beachfront?

Valerie Cherish is a beacon of hope

Thought I’d end this pop culture shit list on a high note! Valrie Cherish is once again gracing our television screens for the third and final season of The Comeback. HBO dropping this trailer during this week makes me feel that same way I did when Beyoncé announced she was pregnant with twins during Trump’s first week in office back in 2017. Those twins haven’t exactly lived up to my high expectations of them, but I’m confident Lisa Kudrow will, especially with John Early alongside her. I screeeaaaammmed when I saw him! I cannot wait to see this energy with Valerie Cherish:

@bingeIt's all about like starting a conversation. Stream every episode ever of Search Party on BINGE. #SearchParty #JohnEarly #ElliottGoss #Funny #Laugh #Satire #TV #TVShow #TVSeries #TVClip #TVClips #TVScene #TVScenes #Clip #Clips #Show #Series #Scene #Scenes #BINGE #ItAllHappensHere

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And for those who need to be held over with another criminally underrated show until The Comeback premieres, please heed my advice and go watch Search Party! It’s on Netflix now, and John Early is incredible in it.

I know what you may be thinking: that’s an amazing idea because Soho House has some relatively punchable members. And initially, that was part of its charm. Biohackers who got kicked out of their silent retreats for not shutting the fuck up about their past ayahuasca retreats. Jenny Mollen feminists and, even worse, Matt McGorry feminists. Lingua Franca liberals and Aaron Rodgers libertarians. Gays that run Real Housewives’ socials after their meme accounts called @EnemaWatson or @TheDevilBottomsPradablew up. Dogpound personal trainers and SoulCycle senior instructors whose ranking level is like Triple Diamond Grandmaster or something, which sounds suspiciously close to a stripper name mixed with a KKK-style hierarchical ranking. It was insufferable, and it’s where I flourished. I got my start making fun of them at a society website, and they loved when I made fun of them, so as a sucker for external validation, I loved them right back. Except for people who have “storyteller” in their bio. Those people can suck it.

Over time, it changed. Less creative people and more people who “like a creative vibe.” Some of them say they’re looking for a “more creative role,” but they will never, ever leave their jobs that are financially cushy — not that anyone really wants their writing, which sounds like copy from a boutique hotel website, or low-res photography taken on their pricey Leicas of espresso martinis and oysters (that’s a horrific combination, by the way).

You know who I’m talking about. Guys whose idea of good entertainment is a sleek white-collar thriller called something like Latency or Gradient starring Clive Owen or Bradley Cooper, with a tastefully slutty amount of facial stubble and a glass office. Girls who BJ Novak and John Mayer date so that they can be the funnier and more successful ones in the relationship. People who say things like “both sides are bad” when asked about Trump and don’t like liberal media but love to be invited to parties that are well-attended by liberal media.

A board of private investors recently bought back Soho House from IPO for $2.7 billion. I assumed that’s not a great sign because Asht*n K*tcher is one of the investors and on the board of directors. I asked my friends who know how the economy works what that means, and they confirmed that it was not a good thing for reasons a lot more serious than Asht*n K*tcher being attached.

It’s evident that they’re carrying out a major overhaul on the Soho House entity, but really their only shot at reinvigorating the brand is turning it into a fight club. It’s honestly the best place to have one because Soho House is the kind of establishment to hand out eucalyptus towels after getting punched in the face.

I was watching Fight Club the other day, and I couldn’t help but notice so many parallels between the movie and the Soho House social scene: fatigue from the monotony of kowtowing to capitalism, conspicuous consumption, and big-dicking and status-maxxing. “Working on yourself” (whatever that means) but not flagrantly suffering enough to merit intervention. Tyler Durden had all the aesthetics and bumper-sticker platitudes of a fake shaman you meet while in Mykonos.

Pluck anyone out of the crowd at any Soho House location, or any member’s club for that matter, and they will be having the same smug, hopeless thoughts as Edward Norton’s character: that they’re the most clever, most authentic, most underrated person in the room, and they’re the only person who sees right through everyone around them.

Going to ReConnect in Gstaad won’t satiate you, or any niche getaway that isn’t polluted by the same population that tainted Soho House. That Shamanic retreat won’t get you out of this perpetual state of tedium, either. A stint at Silver Hill could very well put you over the edge, and I say this as a Silver Hill alum. The shrink I was assigned got fired and is now QAnon and a medium, so there really is no hope in finding solace and support in spiritual healers or going to a shrink. But at least I got a cute free tote bag!

Really, the only chance at an awakening — something that cannot be numbed by ketamine therapy or astral projection at Burning Man — is to get punched in the face. I’m sure a significant chunk of the Soho House is descendants of wealthy families who hunt humans for sport on private islands, so this animalistic desire is embedded deep in their bones, yearning to be quenched.

Good-looking sex seems to be an emerging theme in the cultural zeitgeist as of late — thank God—as good-looking sex seems to be the only thing celebrities can offer us anymore. Let’s face it: no one likes celebrities all that much anymore. There are a billion calamities happening right now, and no one has thought to get together a bunch of celebrities to resurrect “We Are The World” to “raise awareness” because no one wants to hear it. Good-looking sex is really the best thing celebrities can offer us at this point. So instead of talking about the sociopolitical shitshow that’s going down, let’s get to the nitty-gritty of all the good-looking sex going on.

Of course, we have to start off with the Winter Olympics and all the good-looking sex that’s going on there (or lack thereof)! This year, we are subjected to the Olympics happening in Milan. I really, really don’t want to hear about your Italian getaways during the summer, so why would I want to hear about them in the winter? And America’s even more obnoxious because Italian Americans who make being Italian American their entire personalities are relishing it. As a Fordham alum where everyone is either from Long Island or “Jersey,” I’m already traumatized enough from this.

But the undeniable sexual gravitas that comes with the Olympics makes it all the more bearable. The legendary Olympic Village ran out of the 10,000 condoms supplied to the 3,000 athletes within days of the Opening Ceremony.

@sarahmdouglasYou know what they say about the village 🤣

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The branding is corny, and I’m curious as to why they came out with their own condoms instead of having a sponsor. I like to think it’s because the sex there is so, you know, athletic and thrusty that maybe they need a higher caliber of condoms?

I think it also speaks volumes that the Olympics supplied upwards of 300,000 condoms to athletes during the Summer Olympics in Paris. There were 10,700 athletes during the Paris games, but the numbers still tell us the same story: that there isn’t nearly enough of an undercurrent of sexual tension at the Winter Olympics.

No offense to the athletes in the Winter Games, but it’s pretty easy to see why there’s still a ton of sex going on; they might as well be living under Taliban rule compared to the Summer Games. First off, we’ve all seen the Seinfeld episode about shrinkage. I assume the people who participate in the luge just lie there the entire time. Bobsledders aren’t any better. And from everything I know about figure skaters, I think they need to worry less about external validation from men and focus on loving themselves. Can you tell my dad’s celebrity crush was Nancy Kerrigan? He made me watch documentaries on her and Tonya Harding. and would say to me, “Millicent, you don’t understand. This is the story of our generation.”

Heated Rivalry fans vs. Club Chalamet

With all this Heated Rivalry discourse, I’m telling you: America really does love good-looking sex. However, the fanfare has gotten to be a bit much. I think it’s because people are so used to thirsting over the same five actors that are used in movies over and over again: Jacob Elordi, Austin Butler, Timothee Chalamet, Glen Powell, and Paul Mescal. Obviously, there is also fatigue over nepo babies dominating the entertainment industry, but I don’t know guys, maybe they get hired over actors who aren’t part of dynastic Hollywood families because those actors are theater kids and theater kids are fucking annoying.

But you know what’s more unnerving than theater kids? Heated Rivalry fans! Both the show and the main actors, Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams, already have a fanbase that may rival Beatlemania. I knew the writing was on the wall that fans were gonna make it all so weird when I saw that Club Chalamet is rearing her lustful, obsessive gaze towards Connor Storrie.

She tried to start a fan account in response to the “immature discourse”. surrounding the show, which promptly got shut down by Instagram, and it’s likely because Heated Rivalry fans mass-reported it.

I know that Club Chalamet can be a bit…much and sometimes have sinister undertones. Case in point:

But I think it’s gotten to the point where Heated Rivalry’s fanbase has eclipsed CC. This essay published by WIRED explores just how consumed these people are by this show. Comment sections are flooded with homophobia and racism, fans are digging up private information on the actors and their loved ones, and some have gone as far as calling Storrie’s co-star and friend Francois Arnaud a “pedophile” because they’re speculating that their relationship is a lot more than platonic and he’s 40 and Storrie is about to turn 26.

I don’t know, guys, even Club Chalamet is calling out the fans for taking things too far. Luckily, they haven’t gone into John Hinckley Jr. territory yet, but they’re making Swifties look well-adjusted.

Obligatory Blithering Heights discourse

Like everyone else, I saw Wuthering Heights this past weekend. I’ve actually never read the book, or seen the movie. Of course, there was good-looking sex abound, as it starred Jacob Elordi and Margot Robbie and they really, really, really want us to know that they had a Cynthia-Ariana kind of bond. The hyperfixation on the sexual aspect was to be anticipated because we all know Emerald Fennell’s brain is in the gutter:

If you’re not fatigued by all the discourse yet, does an amazing job breaking down why it was not only bad, but in poor taste. Honestly, the only thing I have to add is that Isabella would have run a Heated Rivalry fan page like it’s the Navy. Also, that fingers in the mouth move Jacob Elordi pulled (iykyk) only to ghost for years….I would be yearning for him too. That was some hot shit right there.

This is why NYFW has gone downhill

Now onto a pairing that is the antithesis of good-looking sex — thanks for that, crystal dick!

I’ve been holding space for Clavicular ever since he got framemogged by an ASU frat leader, but I think a tasteful amount of time has passed where we can make jokes about him again. What’s the perfect antidote to getting framemogged? Posing with someone who has zero chance of framemogging you. So of course, Clavicular getting some camera time with Liv Schmidt of Skinnytok was an amazing PR move on his end.

I missed my period for months at a time and eat 20 bananas a day from my teens to my early twenties, so I know what exactly what Skinnytok is up to, and it’s peak loser behavior. They’re all really smug, but the fact is, it is the tackiest iteration of eating disorder campaigns yet, and you better believe I was deep in the trenches of pro-ana and raw vegan Tumblr and Xanga.

Wrapping up the newsletter here, so I will leave you all with this clip from Sexy Unique Podcast discussing how Clavicular’s parents must be digesting their son’s descent into looksmaxxing loserdom.

On a scale of one to Jennifer Aniston’s nipples in every episode of Friends, how excited are we for the Olympics and the Super Bowl this weekend? Not really? Because we’re a nation in decline, and the Winter Olympics are the less exciting Olympics anyway? Same!

Let’s kick off this week’s Shit List by getting a little nostalgic, shall we? With the Super Bowl happening this weekend, I can’t help but reflect on the 2012 Super Bowl. Back then, it was a bright light during a dark week for me. The Patriots unfortch lost to the Giants, my friend rioted at UMass Amherst while wearing nothing but a bathrobe and had a SWAT team search warrant out for her—giving her the nickname “Robe Girl”—and my ex-whatever unfortch cheated on me with a girl who was really unfortch looking. Don’t worry, he’s fortch aged terribly since—he has a really disgusting ponytail now!

Oh! Also, Whitney Houston died.

Grudges against my ex, the New York Giants, and the Massachusetts SWAT team aside, there was a glimmer of goodness that week: the NBC Super Bowl ad.

I used to love it, but especially in light of this week, with all the talk around the Epstein files, this ad has aged almost as badly as my ex.

Here at Shit Talkers’ Society, we do not stand for two things: sex pests and musical theater. But indulge me for the sake of performing a cultural autopsy, won’t you?

Nostalgia used to feel so cozy, especially during the buttfuckery of the Trump administration. But now, this NBC ad feels like a showcase of the predatory behavior that plagues the upper echelons of society. It almost feels like they’re rubbing it in our faces. So many of these people should be in prison—or at least excommunicated from relevancy. The fact that I can count on two hands how many sex predators appear in this ad is appalling. On top of that, we’ve got a high-ranking Scientologist, an ardent Islamophobe, several people who performed at the Saudi Arabian comedy festival, and—perhaps most bone-chilling of all—Dax Shepard.

Even though this ad is an absolute petri dish crawling with despicable people who had the audacity to believe they had any semblance of talent to begin with (full offense, JIMMY FALLON), it still weirdly gives me a flicker of hope.

The stench of evil is eclipsed by the stench of Tina Fey’s undeniable talent. Although there are justifiable criticisms of her work, she’s an oracle of the cultural zeitgeist. Her line in this commercial about how mediocrity is condemnable is an ominous foreshadowing of how bad the entertainment industry has gotten. And how many times has she warned us about these predatory men with her nimble writing? How many times has a scandal rocked this country only for someone to chime in, “Tina Fey warned us about this”? Harvey Weinstein’s casting couch! Bill Cosby's predatory behavior! Idiots having major sway in presidential elections!

Vindication in the Rights of Hunter Biden

First off, I’d like to thank everyone who reached out to me amid the latest Hunter Biden discourse, reignited by the Epstein files dominating the news cycle. Although I’m an underemployed thirtysomething with zero prospects, the fact that people immediately think of me when Hunter Biden enters the chat tells me I’m doing something everything right.

MAGA has always resented Hunter Biden for being down to party—even though the sex workers he paid had nothing but kind things to say about him. We love a man who treats service workers with respect, whether it’s waitstaff or escorts. I also feel vindicated because my arch-nemesis, Jeremy Piven, once bullied me—with thousands cheering him on—for saying Hunter Biden was hot. I believe the exact words he used were “fucking weird.” Hunter is the only hetero who can take a selfie without making it cringe. Meanwhile, this jabroni is polluting my Instagram Stories with this buffoonery:

Jack Antonoff’s icy red carpet interview

I thought about covering the Grammys this past week, but that would mean having to defend Addison Rae’s performance of “Fame Is a Gun.” I’d rather not waste my time explaining Addison’s genius to dilettantes who are too obtuse to understand star power. But I do need to talk about Jack Antonoff’s interview about his iced-out pin.

This is the downside of insisting that celebrities use their massive platforms for good. I can’t believe I’m the one playing devil’s advocate, because that role is usually reserved for bespectacled heteros who think they’re so much smarter than everyone else—you know, guys like Jack Antonoff. But maybe he’s treading lightly on Trump talk because he wants to get back into Taylor Swift’s good graces? There are rumblings that she’s low-key MAGA after all, and she’s been silent on ICE while being very vocal about her fiancé’s dick size. He didn’t produce Taylor’s most recent album, so maybe he’s trying to stay copacetic with her. After all, anytime one of her friends does something to inconvenience her, she writes an album about it.

But it’s also entirely possible that Jack Antonoff is just that self-absorbed and dumb.

Speaking of ICE, my gorgeous friend is using her platform to raise money for an immigration lawyer for Lalo, who is currently being detained by ICE despite having a work visa. Please join me in donating here!

Is Soho House punking us?

Soho House got sold back to a group of private investors this past week, with one of the investors being none other than Ashton Kutcher. He’s also going to be on the board of directors. He’s been looking for a new board seat to fill since he resigned from his human trafficking nonprofit Thorn’s board in disgrace, after writing a letter defending his convicted rapist friend Danny Masterson.

I don’t really understand why Ashton Kutcher is so hellbent on convincing us all that he’s this entrepreneur-philanthropist-actor triple threat. He can’t even do one of those things passably. But I have some predictions for what he’s going to bring to Soho House:

• Bill Cosby doing a tour as a celebrity bartender, serving up his famous Red Eye cocktails.

• Sectioning off a special space in each clubhouse for side chicks to compete with Casa Cipriani as the new hotspot for escorts.

• Rooftop pools filled with baby oil and lube confiscated from Ashton’s best friend P. Diddy’s home. Get excited for lube wrestling matches and skin so baby-soft that Ashton’s friends will get aroused by it.

• Soho House launching yet another unnecessary skincare line. Oh wait, they already did that.

There was an archetype my parents didn’t prepare me for: the emotionally stunted, self-proclaimed “creative” who insists he was the first to conceptualize a billion-dollar app or an acclaimed screenplay.

No one else really cautioned me about this kind of guy either—probably because they’re ethically, politically, and aesthetically non-threatening and unremarkable that not enough people make fun of them to give them a formal name. For the sake of this essay, our blueprint/object of derision/whipping boy will be Justin Kirk’s character Rob on the show You’re the Worst.

I was in an especially fatherless place in my life when I first binged You’re the Worst.1 It was a Vulture darling on FX before Ryan Murphy held that channel hostage. Gretchen is the protagonist who lives to antagonize society. The only aspirational thing about her is that she once told Jason Mraz that he’s a “fedora-wearing diarrhea.” I lie awake at night fantasizing about verbally incinerating James Corden and Jack Johnson should I ever cross paths with them instead of fantasizing about a career or family. So I consider Gretchen a North Star for my thirties.

I became fixated on the bottle episode “LCD Soundsystem,” which follows a painfully cool Los Feliz-based couple, Rob and Lexi. Rob is a film restorer, Lexi does eco-friendly architecture or something. Rob and Lexi have a daughter, Harper, and a pug, Sandwiches. Harper is courting admission to prestigious preschools. Rob and Lexi share matching progressive politics and tiny anchor tattoos2. They have morning sex and playful-but-cerebral banter. Their date nights are either highbrow outings or nights in binge-watching a show together.

Besides the nauseating anchor tattoos, it seems so perfect in a post-indie sleaze kind of way until it’s revealed that Rob is miserable, and Lexi is oblivious to it. Rob’s already plotting his escape, even though he’s too much of a pussy to pull the trigger.

I felt awful for Rob. Maybe if he had a partner he could communicate with openly and didn’t feel the need to conform to societal standards, he’d be a much less miserable person. I realize now that this was the most 29-year-old thought that could have ever 29-year-olded in the history of 29-year-olds.

But Rob wasn’t 29. He was 43 fucking years old.

I insisted my shrink watch the show so she’d finally understand what I was ruminating about. When I pressed her for her opinion on Rob, my shrink sighed and said, “He’s too Jewish.”3 She’s Jewish so she can say that kind of thing, and I’m not, so she knows I’m in a weird position to question it. Instead of elaborating on how those guys remind her of the boys that traumatized her at summer camp, she just waited for me to turn 30 and put me on Zoloft.

So eventually, I turned 30. And I didn’t see Rob as a project or a charity case, but as an image-obsessed, pathetic man who had the luxury of having Justin Kirk’s face.

Not only did I come to hate him, I started seeing Rob everywhere. He smells like clove and sandalwood. He always has just the right amount of facial stubble. His home has exquisite furniture, and he cares deeply about where the wood comes from. There are instruments hanging on his walls that he has never played, but he’ll tell you all about how he was in a band in his twenties that “could’ve really taken off” if it weren’t for all the awesome sex and parties he was having. He will solely watch HBO prestige shows and refuse to watch Vanderpump Rules or Gilmore Girls until he finds out that Jason Mantzoukas loves them. He blames private equity for gentrification but loves brands that are secretly backed by PE, like Joe & the Juice and Blank Street Coffee. He wants to join members’ clubs like Soho House and Zero Bond so badly for the “creative vibe” that he exaggerates his CV, saying he’s an entrepreneur or producer or something. Then six months after he gets in, he’s like, “Since when did this place get so full of social climbers?” But at least he will rub elbows with people who are in loose social circles with a Haas brother or BJ Novak or that DJ Stretch Armstrong guy. He shits on others for caring so much about image but seems to put a lot of thought into his own.

He congratulates himself on going to therapy. His therapist is probably a woman who wears gauzy clothing, has a lot of chotchkes, and terrible boundaries, and chose to be a therapist as a late-in-life hobby. She has so much internalized misogyny that she congratulates him for just being there. He says transcendental meditation “changed his life.” He’s really smug about having all the right politics to the point where it’s like, “Okay, dude, it’s not like you’re the one actually shouldering the burden of creating and carrying out a plan to bring universal healthcare to the US.” He follows and AOC on social media. He loves Mamdani but is morally just as questionable as Cuomo. He’s really vocal about societal power imbalances but then gets really quiet when asked why he only dates girls that are a lot younger than him.

His dating app profiles have an astonishing number of selfies for someone his age, but that’s only because all his BFA and Getty photos are from events that his much cooler exes took them to. He makes up for it by being surprisingly good at banter, and he’s willing to talk on the phone because, for guys his age, that’s not a big deal. He rebrands his sexual dysfunction as having a “European” approach to sex while fetishizing women’s sexual dysfunction. He’ll eventually suggest an open relationship because did it.

There’s a part of me that wants to say things to these guys to intentionally repel them. I want to tell them that I’ve never seen a Quentin Tarantino movie, that I only know him as Trisha Paytas’ ex. I want to tell them that Addison Rae is just like Tom Waits, if Tom Waits was hotter and actually had talent. That Addison Rae could crank out an incredible cover of “Shore Leave,” but Tom Waits would never be able to cover “Diet Pepsi.” I want to ruin their day. I want to get under their skin. I want to fucking haunt them.

I often wonder what becomes of Rob and Lexi. I’m guessing they have an anchor baby as a Hail Mary, as if the matching anchor tattoos weren’t enough of a bad omen to begin with. They were hoping for a boy so they could name him something like Rowan or Luca, but instead end up with another little girl who they still end up naming Rowan or Luca, which pleases the wife because hopefully being a girl dad would pressure the guy into staying, while disappointing Rob. They’d divorce by the time Rowan/Luca is eighteen months old.

Lexi will be fine, eventually. She’ll be relieved that she will never have to deal with Rob’s mother again. Rob’s mother overindulged him and drunkenly told Lexi once that she breastfed him until he was like seven, as a way to assert dominance. Lexi will never get married but will date a great guy that she refers to as her “life partner,” which will make all their gay friends wince because straight people using that term is cringe. She’ll mostly be over Rob, but it’ll definitely annoy her that he’s aging well. Lexi will be therapized enough to take the higher road with him when it comes to parenting, but she’ll need an extra Solo cup of warm natural wine at her daughter’s Color Me Mine birthday parties while Rob plays the darling, doting dad who’s just flirtatious and also paternal enough to charm the other moms. God, he probably wore a slightly rumpled button-down that shows a tastefully slutty amount of chest hair.

Meanwhile, Rob’s off watching A24 movies while sipping a 25-year-old Japanese whiskey with a 26-year-old girl beside him, who he swears is an “old soul.” Or he finds sobriety and joins AA and 13th-steps4 new girls. He’d probably get their numbers by offering to send them a meditation app that “changed steps 10–12 for him completely,” while Lexi is still wondering when he’s going to complete that step that requires him to apologize to people.

Rob probably thought single life would be all good-looking sex and sunrise DJ sets at Burning Man. But really, most girls don’t want to date a film restorer because it’s dated and they don’t even know what that means. He’ll probably go viral a bunch of times making age-gap couple content with whatever girlfriend-of-the-week. She’ll be hopeful that it’ll lead to an influencing career, and he’ll be like, “Oh my God, babe, you should really go for it. It’ll be a really good way to boost brand visibility for your Etsy shop that you want my friends to invest in.”

@themichaeljustinShe keeps me young.. pt 47 @emilystomatuk #couplecomedy #couple #agegap #agegapcouple #agegaprelationship #grocery

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As I continued to use this episode as a litmus test for my maturity, I came to the realization that I am Rob. And Rob is me.

No, seriously, this isn’t me fishing for compliments. At this point, being a writer is as dated a job as being a film restorer. I’ve been looking at bungalows in East Austin and apartments in Hudson. I constantly find ways to shoehorn into conversation that Phoenix Marie once tried to convince me to become a porn star, so that people know I’m sexually liberated and open-minded. But really, I still have intimacy issues and will continue to romanticize guys I have no future with. Case in point: I really know nothing about Justin Kirk, but I looked up his natal chart, and it is harrowing — which made him all the more enticing. Fingers crossed that he’s one of those actors who lies about what year he was born, though, for the sake of his loved ones’ sanity. My WASPy mother would also hate it if I dated an adult man who has the audacity to be named Justin.

My shrink says I have to get comfortable with uncomfortable emotions, even when it means holding space for conflicting impulses and sentiments. It’s like the Sam Rockwell “I’m her and she’s fucking me” monologue from The White Lotus, but I really, really do not want to be that douchebag who resolves it by finding Buddhism. I tried that bullshit when I got a hamsa tattoo when I was going through a breakup when I was 20 — trust me, it doesn’t work and I still don’t know what my tattoo even means. These feelings are more of a quiet indignity than the time Josh Groban eyefucked the shit out of me on the subway. It’s been ten years, and I still haven’t found a way to deal with those confusing feelings either. Inner work sounds exhausting at this point because I’m frankly sick of myself. I guess the only answer is to have a bunch of good-looking sex with them when I go to SXSW in March.

I hope you’re all staying bundled up, cozy, and most importantly, safe during one of the coldest and chaotic weeks to date. Yesterday’s Shit List was delayed out of solidarity with the ICE Out national shutdown.

Listen, I really didn’t want to talk about the Ashley Tisdale drama with her mom friend group, which includes Hilary Duff, Mandy Moore, and M*ghan Tr*inor. In fact, it’s literally why I delayed kicking off the inaugural pop culture newsletter of 2026. I’ve never felt inclined to form opinions about Ashley Tisdale, even when she was relevant twenty years ago because I found her acting to be very twitchy, huffy, and shrill in a way that I find off-putting.

But now, I really have no choice but to talk about it because it keeps raging on, and I’m feeling obligated to talk about that or Danielle Bernstein’s engagement ending (which I can’t force myself to care about) or Kanye West’s WSJ apology ad (and I’m not gonna touch that with a 849,375-mile pole).

But now I have opinions. A lot of them, in fact.

Before Ashley Tisdale’s infamous essay in The Cut, all I really knew about her adult life was that she had an unnecessary skincare line that no one asked for and she really, really, really, really wants us all to know that she’s best friends with Austin Butler, while he never really mentions her.

Ashley having obnoxious social skills isn’t anything new. I figured as much when she chose Austin Butler over Vanessa Hudgens during their breakup. I’m sorry, but since when does an Oscar nomination give you more social capital than having the magnum opus “Sneakernight” in your repertoire? And it’s not news that Hilary Duff kind of sucks as well, and it’s insane that people still aren’t getting it. As someone who was staunchly Team Lindsay during the Lohan-Duff feud of the early aughts, I always knew Hilary was a bit of a twat.

I rest my case.

People really cozied up to Hilary Duff for nostalgic reasons, and her twerpy husband can be kind of funny on social media sometimes. Plus, Hilary’s iced out her sister Haylie like she did Ashley Tisdale. People assume they fell out because Haylie is quietly MAGA. As noble as it sounds, MAGA’s almost as culty as Scientology, and Hilary’s still best friends with high-ranking militant Scientologist Alanna Masterson. Alanna is more famous for intimidating and antagonizing her brother Danny’s victims during his rape trial than she is for her acting career.

Ashley was hanging out with Haylie Duff this week, and people are lording it over her head that despite having a history of asserting that she is a Democrat who disdains Trump on Instagram over the years, they’re assuming she’s full MAGA out of nowhere because she didn’t post about ICE soon enough and she posted about Charlie Kirk getting shot back in September. Charlie Kirk was a condemnable, subhuman troglodyte, but it’s understandable that those who hated him were disturbed by seeing him get executed on television.

I find it really bizarre that people are getting, well, twitchy, huffy, and shrill on TikTok about all of this. It’s almost as if they’re graduates of the Ashley Tisdale School of Teenybopper Dramatics. Many are taking trite pop culture gossip and using it as an opportunity for moral grandstanding. I think Hilary Duff and Ashley Tisdale are just really, really happy you’re talking about them again—this time in a way that isn’t entirely reliant on nostalgia for their teenybopper years. And I think Mandy Moore is thrilled that people are finally done obsessing over her upper bleph.

Just some food for thought: if you measure how much you like someone by how happy they were when Charlie Kirk got murdered, you might as well start an Erika Kirk Fan Club. That psychopath is ecstatic.

Team Firecrotch forever!

I’ve championed Lindsay Lohan since I was a kid. Back then, I was firmly on her side during her feuds with Hilary Duff, Ashlee Simpson, and, of course, Paris Hilton. My 21st birthday cake even featured her mugshot with the message: “Happy Birthday Millicent! Make good decisions!” (Sidenote: I was on a leave of absence from school thanks to Adderall—so, clearly, not making good decisions.)

In this absolute buttfuckery of a sociopolitical climate, it’s an auspicious omen that Paris has brokered peace with Lindsay. This week on Watch What Happens Live, she confirmed that they mended fences after Lindsay got engaged and they’re planning on getting their kids together for a playdate.

It warms the cockles of my cold, dead heart to see my two girls are soooo back. Lindsay’s been doing a lot of inner work, and you guys know I hate it when people say that kind of shit, but Lindsay took pictures of herself meditating in Thailand. She converted to Islam. She has tiny, meaningful tattoos. She found love in a hopeless place (Dubai). She’s been networking her ass off.

Sydny Nyds Spllng Lssns

Sydney Sweeney always leaves us guessing. Not in a way where we’re frothing at the bit, wondering what her next move is, but more in a “Wait… what… why would you do that?” way. Instead of explicitly denying any ties to white supremacy or the MAGA party after her American Eagle commercial that paid homage to Triumph of the Will, she’s chosen to explicitly deny having any work done on her face or body. While promoting The Housemaid, Sydney stated in an interview that she could never do Botox because she’s “so scared of needles.” Okay, if you’re so scared of needles, why do you have such an affinity for Scooter Braun’s dick?

Based on that jeans/genes commercial alone, Sydney’s biggest fault (or, as she would say, kampf) is that she’s really only sexy in a Patricia Heaton on Everybody Loves Raymond kind of way. In yet another questionable business move, she launched a lingerie line called SYRN. Get it, you guys? Like Sydney and siren—but stripped of vowels and any semblance of originality. That branding peaked when Grindr and Lyft came out. But isn’t that such “quietly conservative” behavior? They love to mingle with creatives while staying uncomfortably silent about injustices, but when they try to be creative themselves, it’s like, ten years too late—and they bungle it.

I really don’t know why she’s come out with a product for women when she’s alienated most of her female fanbase by cozying up to MAGA. Truly, the only demographic she hasn’t alienated at this point is the men in her comment section who post things like, “Thank you for sharing your body with us, Sydney.” Like, Kevin, I know you think you’re being polite, but that’s not how manners work.

SYRN did sell out pretty quickly, but if I’ve learned anything about business acumen, it’s that many brands intentionally release small quantities so they can sell out fast and look more in demand than they actually are. It doesn’t take a Wharton MBA to figure that out—I learned it from Apple Martin Paltrow making fun of her mother Gwyneth’s Goop business strategy.

@goopWhen you get roasted by your gen z daughter… #motherdaughter #goop #fyp #gwynethpaltrow

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I think Sydney would have been better off selling her used underwear. Fun fact: one time, an Instagram influencer with millions of followers was selling her old clothing on Depop, including underwear she wore. I purchased some of it, obviously. I looked up the return address on the package she sent, and the building matched the apartment she showed all over her Instagram. The absolute last person you want to give your home address to is someone who would buy your used underwear online. Could you imagine what I would do with this information if I were insane?

I know, like, half of my readership is gearing up for a huge snowstorm this weekend. I don’t know what snow day rituals you did when you were kids. At my school, we wore our pajamas inside out, put a spoon under our pillows, and ate cheese before bed.

So while getting cozy and rosy, what better time to introduce my weekly pop culture newsletter? While the entropy of the moral fabric of society is upon us, 2026 has been a banner year for pop culture thus far. Sure, it’s not the same as 2012 when Katie Holmes ambushed Tom Cruise with a divorce and Kristen Stewart was caught cheating with her married director. But there are glimmers of a cultural upswing. Dax Shepard losing a Golden Globe and getting eviscerated by Cher on his own podcast is certainly an auspicious omen. So let’s dive in!

I know we’re all sick of the Blake Lively and Justin Baldoni legal drama. My take: they’re both nuckin’ futs, actors tend to be annoying, and It Ends With Us fallout is not worth the coverage the same way the Don’t Worry Darling fallout was.

I’m gonna preface this by saying of course Justin is gross. Any man that builds his entire platform off of how progressive he is is no different than a man that builds his entire platform off of how pious he is. I cannot wait for the day the general public reconciles with this. Also, the group text betwixt Justin and his Baháʼí cohort was so embarrassing. While Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively are big dicking you and throwing around whatever Hollywood weight they have, the best you could do was reach out to Dwight Schrute and Andy Grammar, who hasn’t been relevant since 2013 and is like Jason Mraz, only more twee and trite? That’s the most insulting thing I could say about someone’s music, by the way. They make music for all male college ac*pella groups. Bone-chilling.

Back to Blake, though. Personally, I’ve always found both her and Taylor Swift to have the personality of a bowl of Cream of Wheat left out overnight. I truly yearn for the days that I wasn’t forced to have an opinion on Taylor Swift. Taylor Swift isn’t why I hate Taylor Swift, but rather her fans and her critics are why I hate Taylor Swift. I don’t think I should be forced to have strong opinions on someone so boring. Her summer house is a hop, skip, and a jump away from my parents’ place, so I sometimes make a point to drive by there blasting the music of whoever she’s feuding with at the moment.

But Taylor Swift referring to Justin Baldoni as a “bitch” really awakened something in me. Sure, she reignited her war with Kanye West after being called the exact same thing in his song “Famous,” but I was giddy with glee that she called him that. It gives me hope that Taylor stops waging wars with the likes of Olivia Rodrigo and Charli XCX just because they dare to exist in the same realm as her, and start bullying little man-bunned bitches like Justin Baldoni.

Wearing a nice sweater doesn’t count as being a nice person, Ashton Kutcher.

Ashton Kutcher has been making the rounds for his latest show, Ryan Murphy’s The Beauty (don’t worry, I’m already hate-watching). I always thought Ashton looked like a dick, but now that he’s wearing a turtleneck, he looks like an uncircumcised penis.

@entertainmenttonight

Entertainment Tonight on Instagram: "It's hard not to notice th…

It’s been incredible to watch him squirm while making a very brave attempt at applauding ex-wife Demi Moore’s much similar film The Substance, which she was thisfuckingclose to winning an Oscar for. Nothing says “I’m healed” like promoting a project eerily similar to your universally beloved ex-wife’s critically acclaimed comeback.

Ashton has always wanted us to know that he’s more than the hot guy from the once-beloved-but-now-tainted That ’70s Show. He needs us to know he’s smart, philanthropic, progressive, capable of Serious Work. He’s like Emily Ratajkowski in that sense.

I vividly remember the interview one of his side chicks did during his marriage to Demi where she said he asked her about politics before they hooked up and told her she really should be more well-read. Which, by the way, is the least sexy sentence I’ve ever heard in my life.

And how can we forget his controversial nonprofit Thorn, which somehow managed to endanger sex workers while congratulating itself for saving them.

At this point Ashton has exhausted every possible PR attempt at redemption, and people see right through him. So as a final Hail Mary, he put on a turtleneck that makes him look like your high school English teacher who adds you on Facebook the day after you graduate.

It’s not like he has anyone in his life to say, “Hey man, maybe that outfit’s not helping, and maybe don’t choose a project eerily similar to your ex-wife’s Oscar-nominated movie from last year.” After all, the only friends he has left are in prison.

And I can’t help but notice how many men seem to think wearing a nice sweater somehow makes them a nice person.

We all remember Jax Taylor announcing he wanted to start a sweater line after getting a porn star pregnant in Vegas while living with Stassi. And we all know Bill Cosby was famously a sweater guy.

There is truly only one man in history who has earned the right to moral redemption through a nice sweater.

Brooklyn’s startin’….

Brooklyn Peltz-Beckham took to Instagram Stories to air out his family’s obvious tensions with his wife, Nicola Peltz-Beckham. Brooklyn is a Psces mn with a Lbra mon, which tells us two things: his mother and his future wife will be pitted against each other, and he absolutely insisted that he got breastfed until he was 17. Astrology is real, people.

I have actually always really enjoyed Brooklyn as a nepo baby. Like every straight guy, he earnestly believes that just because he can do something, he’s automatically really good at it. The writing was on the wall when he attended The New School — the safety school to neighboring nepo baby school NYU — and didn’t even make it a full year.

Remember his photography book that they sold at Urban Outfitters? Even his recipe videos are so amusing because he claims he’s “an absolute nutter in the kitchen,” but he’s just, like, muddling rosemary, lime, and mint leaves in a Collins glass.

I never liked Nicola. Ever since I found out that Hunter Biden asked his cousin to set them up on a date, I’ve found her repellant. I just don’t think Hunter’s a ride she would survive sexually, and I don’t think Nicola’s a ride he couldn’t survive, psychologically. Her Veruca Salt schtick would render him back in rehab within minutes of their first date. I just really think Hunter should end up with Lana Del Rey (because imagine the album we’d get). Or me.

It’s disappointing because Brooklyn is emanating strong Prince Harry characteristics here. All he had to do was not be a little bitch about it and people honestly would have believed that his parents are just as nuts as his wife is.

Alas, he couldn’t be normal about it, because Pisces men have never dealt with anything normally ever.

Queen of Jordon

In the words of Heather during the heart rate phone sex challenge during Season 1 Episode 2 of Rock of Love: I’m gonna keep this short and sweet. I don’t know how many of you love Jordon Hudson as much as I do, but I plan on doing an essay on her in the near future.

My father was a lifelong Patriots fan and defended Tom Brady and Bill Belichek more than he did his own daughers (which isn’t saying much, his nickname for me was “Little Bitch” and he lightly bullied me regularly to build character.) So if he saw that Belichek is dating Jordon and TB12 had good looking sex with Alix Earle in Saint Barths’, he would absoutely have a conniption. It would break his heart more than having a middle child who is a daughter that ended up exactly like him in every maladaptive and socially unacceptable way possible. So obvious I’m living for this double date. Sorry, dad!

Bravo bits and bobs…

An embarrassingly large chunk of my media CV revolves around reality television, and I’m still weighing ideas on how to write about it. A separate newsletter, perhaps some recaps? I do know that I’ll be recapping the Hetero Hell that is The Valley, which rivals Dax Shepard and Kristen Bell’s relationship as the most damning indictment of marriage to ever be committed to cellophane. We’re about to get Southern Hospitality and Summer House too, thank God, because the Bravo drought is very dire at this moment. Heavily considering recapping either of those as well.

Speaking of Hetero Hell in the Bravosphere, Amanda Batula and Kyle Cooke finally announced they would separate after four years of marriage. I guess they finally realized that husbands and wives are supposed to, you know, like each other and spend time together. They released a boilerplate announcement of their split on Instagram Stories, maintaining that their breakup was “amicable.” Even at their best, they weren’t even amicable.

Kyle kind of just bopped around Out East doing his party boy thing, while Amanda’s only contribution was giggling and going, “Oh my goddddd, my husband’s just so crazyyyyy,” while Jesse Solomon openly objectifies her and her big naturals.

While The Traitors isn’t full-on Bravo, it’s adjacent enough that we need to talk about it. This season isn’t really doing it for me. Maybe it’s the winter blues, but mostly it’s because they cast not one but two men who have been credibly accused of abusive behavior with police intervention: Michael Rappaport and Colton Underwood. (SPOILERS BELOW)

The only thing I was truly excited about this season was for someone — literally anyone — to call either of these men out for how creepy and awful they were to their respective exes. It would’ve been so satisfying and so easy. But in a weird plot twist, Colton and Michael ended up turning on each other, which I did not see coming, considering how much they have in common. They would’ve made such a solid alliance. After all, the entire patriarchy has been sustained by disgusting men backing each other up for centuries.

Michael got eliminated at the most recent round table, and not even because the rest of the castle thought he was a traitor — it’s because he’s that goddamn insufferable. He was accused of being homophobic because he said Colton was an obvious traitor seeing as he was a closeted gay man for almost thirty years.

I understand why some people thought that was homophobic, and I have no doubt that Michael Rappaport is, in fact, a total homophobe. But I don’t think he said it to take a principled stand on sexuality — I think he said it because he is genuinely that mind-numbingly obtuse. And frankly, if Michael wanted to be openly homophobic, I suspect he would have absolutely no problem calling Colton a slur.

I’m really disappointed in Peacock for casting both Colton and Michael when there are so many objectively horrible people who are far more entertaining to watch. Colton is an unpalatable combo of sinister and boring, while Michael is so philistine that watching him eat a plate of spaghetti makes me deeply unsoothed.

Why not cast people society cancelled who are still fun to hate-watch? I mean, George Santos is an obsequious MAGA troglodyte, but you cannot deny he would be absolutely incredible as either a Faithful or a Traitor.

And yet here you are, saying that same sentence out loud to your shrink. Not in a sincere way. Not even in an ironic way. More in a postmodern ironic way, and you feel really smart now that you know what postmodern means. In the same session, she also gave you the formal diagnosis of OCD. It’s not even the kind that makes you immaculately clean and detail-oriented, but the kind that makes you consumed by social anxiety. Having formal diagnoses isn’t taboo anymore, as long as it’s done in a palatable way, and you can’t even do that right. You wished in the past that you could have the kind of narcissism that makes you a frontrunner for a CEO position or the kind of depression that makes you forget to eat and get a little too skinny, but the low blood sugar and protruding clavicle and hip bones are such a high that it doesn’t matter if you don’t have a benzo prescription anymore.

It’s not like you didn’t see this conversation coming. When you got your tarot cards pulled at a vintage market in East Austin a few weeks ago, the intuitive told you that all the cards they pulled for you were pentacles. They told you in a steady but reassuring tone that this was the exact opposite of what you wanted to hear because you were crawling inside of your own skin, agitated by stagnation, just waiting for something—anything—to be a concrete win.

But at least you’re in a place in your life now where you can say, “Oh yeah, I just spent the weekend going to vintage markets in East Austin. I got my tarot cards pulled and overheard a girl in an apothecary saying she doesn’t smoke tobacco outside of tobacco ceremonies because she is so sensitive to energy. Like, oh my god babe, just say you’re a social smoker.” You’re in a place now where you can say “babe” and you actually are centered enough for it to come off like you’ve always been one of those girls who says “babe.”

You breathed a sigh of relief when you found out you were in a place of pentacles. You toured a bunch of apartment complexes in Austin, excited by the amenities they offered at such a low price. Bathrooms with LED mirrors, swimming pools with built-in chaise lounges, in-unit laundry. But with each passing tour you realized you would never actually want to make use of the business centers or the billiards rooms, and the apartment buildings looked like the boarding school on Zoey 101. The biggest deterrent of all was when you bumped into a Douglas Elliman realtor who was hyping up his biggest project to date: an apartment complex worth hundreds of millions of dollars that would monopolize South Congress. It promised two Pilates studios, multiple high-end restaurants, and every store you could ever want within spitting distance. You looked the realtor up on Instagram later and saw that his boss was actually Bethenny Frankel’s realtor in Season 7 of RHONY, who got exposed for having a career in gay porn back in his homeland of Scandinavia.

Now you’re reconciling with the fact that soulless modern housing isn’t actually ideal; you just liked the idea of living in a home that made your mother’s skin crawl. So now you’re oscillating between bungalows in Hyde Park, and now the Hudson Valley seems enticing. It’s basically just Williamsburg but eight years ago. Orange wine. Farm to table. Miso everything. Jeffrey Dean Morgan. Divorced dads who are trying really hard to look like Jeffrey Dean Morgan and are tethered to the area because their much cooler ex-wives wanted to move out of the city.

So no new boyfriends or jobs or babies. Nothing concrete to have to show for yourself. You did, however, find a gray pube and went to get your egg count checked at the gyno because you felt like your body was decaying already. Your gyno informed you that it’s not possible to do any kind of test to count your eggs, but offered you an AMH levels test to get a rough idea of where you’re at. The ideal level for your age is between a 1 and 4, and you got a 3.7! But then you found out your egg levels are amazing due to your PCOS, which renders some of your eggs to be a little immature. Your mom laughed a little too hard when you told her that your eggs were as stunted as you were.

It’s not like you wanted to get pregnant and married by 2026, regardless. You refer to pregnant women as “the pregnant” and get super uncomfortable around them. Even though your peers are now intentionally trying to get pregnant, you can’t help but imagine them fucking when they tell you, “We’ve been trying for a baby for a while.” You get the same icky feeling when you hear people say things like “make love” or “intimacy.” Whenever you go to the spa, you always tell your friends and family, “Yeah, it’s because I have to pay people to touch me.” No one laughs. No one ever laughs. But you plan on repeating that joke until someone finally does.

The only thing certain about life is uncertainty. It’s excruciating and embarrassing, but your older friends, whom you adore and admire, say to just stick it out and do not ever settle. They really are insistent on the not-settling part, and you really have no choice but to take their word for it because you’re honestly flattered that women this successful and chic see your potential.

The only commensurable achievements you have from 2025 are consistently ranking first in Township, getting negged by Jeremy Piven, and kind of completing The Artist’s Way. That’s not progress at full-throttle speed, but 2025 was an astonishingly embarrassing year where karma was hibernating, apart from the death of your pervy ex-shrink who made it known that he wanted to fuck you while his wife was in the other room, even while you were crying. Your psychotic ex-roommate finally got engaged, only to be planning entirely Japanese-themed festivities despite being full-blown MAGA and the fact that she and her fiancé are white. You saw Tina Fey and Amy Poehler perform, and Tina said, “This year makes me literally want to cut out my fucking vagina.” You stared at Tina the entire time, not just transfixed, but actively manifesting that you will be in the same room as her as peers one day. It will happen. It has to fucking happen.

So yes, you became the same cliché you always picked apart, and there’s truly no concrete or commensurable way of differentiating yourself from the delusional people who tell themselves the same thing, or at least use ChatGPT to tell them the same thing. Meanwhile, ChatGPT describes you as a “chaos goblin” and “quietly devastating,” and your shrink quietly suggested that you should do a wellness retreat instead of rehab. 2025 isn’t a year you really want anything to do with, so you’ll take the small wins.

So I’ve been left to fend for myself whilst chasing that good ol’ holiday spirit, and I’ve been resigned to doing so by partaking in Whamageddon. For those who require a definition because they’re uncultured and part of the nation’s decreasing literacy rate, Whamageddon is a national phenomenon in the UK. The premise is simple: participants must avoid hearing Wham’s magnum opus “Last Christmas” from midnight on December 1st until midnight on Christmas Eve. The only awards I’ve ever won are sportsmanship, most improved, and best attendance in sports, which is basically an insult. I’m also the top-ranked in my co-op on Township, which is just further evidence that I’m a loser. So I needed this Whamageddon win.

Last year, I was thisfuckingclose to winning. I made the woeful mistake of turning on FM radio to 104.7 — who even does that anymore? Turn on FM radio? It was 3:37 p.m. On Festivus. And as some form of fucked cosmic kismet, “Last Christmas” was playing.

It’s not really on brand for me, but I absolutely adore following mommy bloggers from below the Mason-Dixon line. You know, the ones who aren’t really weird about purity culture and don’t have flagrant dark triad traits (aka not the Labrant family). It warmed the cockles of my cold, dead heart when Hannah Ann Sluss from The Bachelor made a flower arrangement for her dentist. There’s another I love who’s married to an older hedge fund guy she met while modeling with him on his Jackson Hole ranch for Wrangler denim. I genuinely am convinced that in another life I was an SEC sorority girl doing ring by spring, and I think that’s the case for the rest of America too. That’s why when one of them goes missing, it’s the only nonpartisan issue everyone is invested in. In a nation that gets divisive over things as menial as Starbucks coffee cups and M&M commercials, it’s genuinely beautiful that we can all come together on this kind of issue. Even QAnon and Westboro Baptist Church members aren’t on the other side of that debate, and they famously love to play Devil’s advocate.

So imagine my devastation when watching one of them dress her baby up in mommy-and-daughter matching pajamas while playing “Last Christmas.” After supporting her content about capsulizing her placenta and baking sourdough for months. My support paid for her daughter’s gingham outfits and darling smocked onesies. For someone who is uncomfortably adjacent to the “put the Christ in Christmas” demo, you would think she would be mindful of Anglo-Saxon Christmas traditions.

When I was 12 years old and it was Christmas Eve, my family and I were vacationing in Naples, Florida, as we felt obligated to since my maternal grandparents lived down there. Not because my parents enjoy Florida. My mother would be devastated if I put it out there that she enjoys Florida. We were at Publix, and my dad turned to me and said, “Hey, maybe this year instead of milk and cookies, you should leave Santa some Cheetos and beer?” I insisted that was not what Santa wanted, and that he would want Chips Ahoy! M&M cookies, while he insisted the opposite. My mother bought both to pacify us, which explains so much about our familial dynamic. That night, we left a bottle of beer and Cheetos out for Santa. The next day, one of my cousins confirmed Santa wasn’t real. I was devastated that my much younger relative was the one who was in on it before I found out, but my mom assured me that it was only because she’s Jewish.

Christmas has only been downhill for me since. In college, I took deadlines as light suggestions. So while it was down to the wire, I was shoveling an entire Advent calendar’s worth of chocolate into my mouth for sustenance to finish papers that were months past their due dates.

Obviously, Christmas became even more grim after my dad died. Did you know that the plotline of 90% of Christmas movies revolves around a little kid trying to pimp out their recently widowed parent with a rugged Christmas tree farmer or sweet lady pastry chef? I didn’t realize that until I was half-orphaned.

All I wanted for Christmas was a tangible triumph so I’d know I accomplished something. Q4 after Q4, my shrink (bless her heart) reassures me, “At least you’ve done a lot of inner work this year.” Well, I’m sick of self-reflection. I’m sick of myself. On top of that, my birthday is December 30th, which is in that awkward no-man’s-land week of the year, smack between Christmas and New Year’s. The gooch1 of the holiday season. So maybe, just maybe, for my birthday, I humbly ask you all to hold space for those who are practicing Whamageddon.

Take Spotify Wrapped, for instance. Everyone posts theirs for followers and lurkers to admire their taste. I’m an outlier because I’m one of the only non-boomers still using Apple Music, so already my taste is trash. While everyone else pretends to distinguish house tracks or hails Lily Allen as the newest patron saint of fuck-you-feminism, I’m beholden to this list:

• Now That’s What I Call Yacht Rock, Volume 1

• The Princess Diaries soundtrack

• Lana Del Rey’s Born to Die

• Now That’s What I Call Yacht Rock, Volume 2

• Waka Flocka Flame’s magnum opus Flockaveli

• Love Island bombshell entrance music

• The Lizzie McGuire soundtrack (NOT the movie)

• Addison Rae’s debut album

• Cheer competition music

I don’t understand why music has to be such a high-brow thing. Bob Dylan has zero talent, yet we all pretend he’s brilliant. Isn’t songwriting supposed to be simple? Take any part of the human condition, put it into song form. Two-thirds of the way through, drop everything except clapping or drums. Cue the Harlem Children’s Choir or a gospel choir. Then a chord change. Suddenly the world feels inspired to solve AIDS. Why is this formula lost on people? And why must we all pretend Billie Eilish whispering like she’s in a perpetual ketamine hole is genius?

My parents both have amazing taste. My father and grandfather flew to London and Singapore to get clothing custom-made. Some of my dad’s parting words on his deathbed were him criticizing my outfit. Our house is still known as the best sleepover house to this day, and during holidays at relatives’ homes, my mother’s taste in hosting and cooking is still a topic of conversation. My mother’s favorite way to unwind after a long day of finding ways to critique me is to watch Flea Market Flip and Chip and Joanna Gaines, just so she can tear apart the contestants’ choices.

(I can’t add captions to videos but this scene of Tinsley Mortimer on High Society was literally my dad when he saw me on his death bed.)

While I didn’t inherit my parents’ innate ability to stage a sitting room or host a tasteful but festive Christmas Eve dinner, I do adore criticizing others’ taste like it’s an Olympic sport. I’m right alongside my mother, picking apart Lara Spencer’s outfits, though I think Lara was simply a victim of 2012 fashion, trying to signal to network execs that she was still skinny and young enough to avoid the fate of Giuliana Rancic or Maria Menounos.

I also enjoy picking apart the taste of my arch-nemeses, of which there are many (probably because I have a high-conflict personality):

• My former boss, who left my LinkedIn request lingering in her inbox until she fired me, threw a terribly tacky Scottsdale bachelorette party — complete with a denim jacket bedazzled with her husband-to-be’s last name.

• The girl who ratted me out for drinking in the girls’ bathroom during Winter Formal at fifteen named her three daughters with alliterated names beginning with P, as if they’re branding themselves to be the next Kardashians. The Kardashians would never get as excited as you guys over doing beach casual family photo shoots and visiting Old Sturbridge Village, but you do you, Hilary!

• And of course, my golden goose, my big kahuna: my cartoonishly evil college roommate who votes MAGA and whose family faced a very public lawsuit for obscenely racist behavior, is planning an entirely Japanese-themed wedding — despite she and her fiancé (nine years older than her) having zero Asian lineage.

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So I know what to hate, but I don’t know what to love. Is that inextricably linked to my commitment issues, emotional unavailability, and fear of intimacy? Perhaps. But you know what’s more fun than unpacking that baggage? Having a moon bounce at my future wedding.

My taste in anything is the equivalent of that schlubby wingman at a frat party who wears funny T-shirts to compensate for his lack of looks and charm. And yes, I actually own some of those shirts: a lacrosse pinny that says Drive Fast Eat Ass, a grubby tee that says Clit Commander, and a black shirt with two red arrows pointing to my shoulders reading Leg Rests.

Look, I’m an amazing shopper. I can throw together a look that earns both compliments and jealousy, and pick out sentimental-but-tasteful gifts for my loved ones. But design? Decorating a house with a huge budget? Not really my steez. My younger sister went antiquing with my mom at age three — like the kiss-ass she is — while I fantasized about sleeping in a race-car bed or the clam that Ariel slept in from The Little Mermaid. The most excited I’ve ever been over an item in my apartment? My shower curtain, which is a collage of memes where Kris Jenner is crying.

My taste is whatever feeds my dopamine receptors, whether it’s inflatable Christmas decorations or a divorced-dad-rock-themed guest bathroom I saw on TikTok. If I tried to execute any of my ideas, it would look less whimsical and more like that tragic Glasgow Willy Wonka Chocolate Experience or an abandoned amusement park — and I’d get bored in five minutes.

Coach

Are you that person who gives unsolicited advice? Are you kind of condescending? Do you have any major Virgo, Aquarius, or Aries placements? Do you have a pulse? If you answered “yes” to any of these, then you have the makings of an amazing coach! What kind of coach, you ask? Literally anything you want. There are zero limits on what you can coach others on, and even more importantly, there is zero accountability. You can cross any kind of “professional” boundary or be completely unqualified and no one can report you. I’ve seen life and health coaches (obvious) as well as party and friendship coaches (less obvious but, given the effects of Covid, shockingly necessary).

Example: There’s this one girl on TikTok who is a digital nomad-turned-ADHD-coach-turned-self-proclaimed-expert-on-the-extremely-delicate-War-on-Gaza. She gained a lot of her following from doing a storytime about her threesome with Justin Kirk. I say this as someone who got tested for neurodivergence and has been officially designated as 99th percentile ADHD: I would rather get her advice on how to have a threesome with Justin Kirk. I would do things with that man that you find in the dark underbelly of Urban Dictionary.

Perfect For: Girlies and gays whose favorite part of a wild night out is consoling a drunk crying stranger in the bathroom.

CEO

Turns out you don’t need to have a business that exists to say you’re a CEO. You can say things like “in talks,” “taking meetings,” “beta testing,” and even host a “soft launch” for something that can never make it out of the “incubation stage.”

Example: Bros who decided, “Hey, we should launch a ceremonial-grade matcha startup and sell it to PE,” while getting in touch with their inner child at Burning Man on ayahuasca. One of them wrote his Wharton MBA essay about falling in love with entrepreneurship running a lemonade stand as a little boy — mostly to distract from the fact that the only thing on his CV is “worked in the family office.”

Perfect For: Anyone who used to claim they were an entrepreneur but had to stop now that everyone knows that’s a bullshit career.

Etsy Witch

Etsy used to be the go-to site for artisans selling windchimes made of seashells and crochet beanies that no one asked for, but Etsy witches have been making a killing. The economy sucks, loneliness is at an all-time high, and societal morale is eroding. People are so desperate they’ll take any kind of Hail Mary, and that includes purchasing spells from anonymous self-proclaimed mystics who don’t have to be accountable for anything.

Example: Uh….

Perfect For: People who have no problem charging money for desperate singletons who want their ex-situationship to unblock them on Instagram, WhatsApp, and Venmo.

Director/Strategist/Consultant

Did you know, like, 90% of words are perfectly legal to use? Especially those that assert some level of expertise! You can easily fill in gaps on your résumé by saying you’re some kind of authority on an industry or branding or whatever. Apparently, it counts!

Example: Okay, confession time — I have an Instagram to hold my name. I really only use it to keep tabs on the cultural zeitgeist and to online shop, but I also use it for good! Will Arnett (55 years old) kept liking a much younger influencer’s scantily clad photos, and I know it’s not because he thought her captions were inspiring. So I kept commenting, “@arnettwill, I need you to know we can all see you liking a picture of a girl not even half your age despite having a girlfriend with whom you have a three-year-old son.” I kept doing it just as an inside joke with myself, and eventually he went through and unliked all of her photos and unfollowed her. One year later, he broke up with his (38-year-old) girlfriend and is now dating Carolyn Murphy, who is 51 years old. Is cyberbullying Will Arnett the most unemployed thing I’ve ever done? Yes, but now I can say that I’m an “image consultant” or “PR strategist” and cite this as an example. That’s showbiz!

Perfect For: If you’re trying to sound important at Art Basel.

Thought Leader

Someone who thinks it’s novel that they have a lot of thoughts, opinions, and feelings. Like, more than the average person. That’s not the case; their ego dominates the conversation.

Example: Justin Baldoni believing he’s an anomaly because he realized you should be nice to women.1

Perfect For: People who have no problem pretending that their child said something really profound so that they can post about it on LinkedIn.

Wellness Guru

If you are an idiot with a tenuous grasp on science or a white person with a tenuous grasp on cultural sensitivity, this may be the path for you. Goddess retreats, juice cleanses, suicide cults — sky’s the limit!

Example: Guru Jagat Katie Griggs

Perfect For: Those who have an undeniably Charles Manson-esque gravitas and don’t know what to do with all their white linen outfits from summering.

Graduate Certificate

A cash grab for even the most prestigious of institutions, and a clout grab for you! Turns out, you can just apply for a graduate certificate for a degree you have no business in having from any reputable university you want. I still don’t get how science works completely, and yet I can take PhD courses in…science stuff at UC Berkeley or whatever.

Example: Influencers who want to pretend they have depth but know that taking thirst traps of themselves meditating in Bali just isn’t cutting it.

Perfect For: People who claimed they did badly in school because they have “test-taking anxiety” even though they went to one of those alternative private schools that doesn’t give out grades or homework.

There’s one subset of hotness that defies all logic, that transcends space and time, and that we lack the vocabulary to accurately define: fuck up your life hot. It’s impossible to encompass it in a definition—or even an entire dissertation—because the ineffable is what makes you so effable. And yet, other women know exactly what I’m talking about. You know, the kind of hot that’s like, “I know what you are. I know what you’ll do to me. I’ve made peace with it. In fact, I welcome it.” It’s the kind of hot that gets you 5150’d or lands you in a circle of folding chairs in a church basement, sipping shitty instant coffee while hoping to find a Higher Power that can snap you out of the daze that fuck up your life hot has you in. But it’s also the kind of hot that gave us Lana’s Born to Die album, so it’s totally worth it. It’s beyond words the same way seeing the Grand Canyon or watching Vanderpump Rules for the first time.

Guys often ask me what kind of woman is fuck up your life hot, and the answer is that all women are fuck up your life hot. However, there is one man who unequivocally encompasses the very essence of fuck up your life hot, and that man is Hunter Biden.

Hunter Biden first pinged my radar when he tested positive for cocaine back in 2013. I didn’t understand why the media was making such a big deal out of it. All politicians’ offspring have a substance problem. My mom used to run in loose social circles with a member of a political dynasty who carried around a fishing-tackle box full of drugs. And that very man is now in charge of the Department of Health, telling us that Tylenol while pregnant leads to autistic babies and doing weightlifting while wearing jeans. Personally, I don’t want to live in an America where the vice president’s son doesn’t do cocaine.

Over the past ten years, my captivation with Hunter Biden somehow morphed into full-blown limerence. I know what you’re thinking: Millie, have you not heard about his laptop photos? Believe you me, I know all about them. I have exhausted all methods to get to the bottom of that nonsense. I even asked a relative who worked in the Biden White House if they had access to them. And then my mom got mad at me because there are more pressing things than finding out about Hunter’s Malibu Beach House™ adventures or dick deets, like whatever was going on in the Middle East at the time.

But at the end of the day, we all have our baggage, so who am I to judge? If I can make peace with the fact that he’s an adult man named Hunter, I think the rest of America should be able to accept that Hunter is down to party.

Hunter Biden is what happens when a guy with an Aquarius stellium settles down before the age of 48. The only thing I can really fault him for is his cringeworthy selfies, and I guess his art that everyone insists on hating. But is there even such a thing as “good” art? I go to gallery openings and art auctions often, and I still can’t tell you what “good” art looks like. I really just go to make fun of nepo babies who pretend to have synesthesia for artistic credibility and for the open bar. All I’ve really learned from those parties is that the guy in the loudest, most expensive outfit is always the poorest, and the guy in the grubbiest outfit is always the wealthiest.

Regardless, you people just don’t get Hunter’s vision. His art looks like elevated versions of the mandala coloring books they hand you in rehab when the ping-pong table is occupied and you need to channel your rage until the state-mandated cigarette break. Of course a straight white guy from a dynastic East Coast family mastered coloring books and immediately decided he was a prolific artist.

So here I am on Thanksgiving Eve, sitting at my parents’ house, lusting after Hunter Biden as if that’s any distraction from the fact that my peers are off getting job promotions, buying second homes, vacationing in Mustique, and having babies on purpose instead of accidentally. Facing my family tomorrow after publishing an essay about wanting Hunter Biden to split me in half with his sex tomahawk isn’t even going to be as awkward as it will be when I have nothing new to share about my life, unlike the rest of my cousins.

Your thirties are supposed to be when you have some concrete proof that your life is going somewhere. When my grandfather was my age, he had a Purple Heart from storming Normandy Beach. My grandmother had four or five kids before she turned my age. My great uncle was made a federal marshall while working for as an advisor for JFK so he could escort Black children into school on Juneteenth. My cousins are all in grad school, married, super successful. Meanwhile, all I can say to my shrink is “At least I did a lot of inner work this year!” while chucking my resumé into a black abyss and writing about getting kinkshamed by washed up celebrities and being propositioned for pictures of my bowel movements back when I had potential. Potential used to be the most exciting thing to have back then, now it just feels like an insult to be told I have potential because clearly I haven’t reached it.

But I think what ultimately draws me to Hunter is that we are the same. We have so much in common that I don’t know where I end and Hunter begins. Middle-child syndrome. Half-orphaned. Piercing blue eyes. Saturn-heavy birth charts. Him, a history major at a safety school. Me, a history major at the safety school to his safety school. A duo of quiet disappointments of well-respected WASPy families.

Two trust-fund dumpster babies against the world.

Over the course of nine months, I had five loved ones die. It’s both boring and excruciating to talk about, and there’s no way to casually say it without sounding like I’m competing for the gold medal at the Trauma Olympics. I was holed up in my room surviving on a bag of hot dog rolls and mixing Polar Seltzer and what turned out to be cooking sherry after running out of wine that they sell at CVS. The weight gain was quick and apparent, and I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror without wearing a giant flannel or sweatshirt for months to come. My skin looked better than ever even though I wasn’t bathing, and that’s largely due to making the depressing conclusion that sheet masks stay on even when you’re discovering a thousand new ways to cry. I was wrapped in my grief cocoon that consisted of a HugSleep adult swaddle and a weighted blanket

Mindlessly scrolling through Instagram was painful, as seeing my peers begin to move forward with their lives now that the pandemic restrictions had been lifted felt too painful. TikTok was excruciating as well, as the algorithm was force-feeding me a stream of clips of people trauma dumping about losing a parent and making jokes about it. It was an unsettling way to find out that this app was listening in on my conversations because it’s not as if I was typing in “dead dad jokes” into the search engine. I spent a disgusting amount of money within three days on Candy Crush as well, and my phone was becoming a bottomless pit of debt, grief, and despair.

My saving grace became reality television. Bravo was always the lingua franca on my father’s side of the family, where there wasn’t a single black sheep. It wasn’t that all seven of my grandparent’s children and all fourteen of their grandchildren functioned as some stuffy WASPy monolith, it was quite the opposite. Besides our deep-set almond eyes that undeniably made us all Moore offspring, the only common thread we have is our undying love of reality television. The only time I visited my grandmother after my grandfather died, she force-fed me copious amounts of Boursin cheese, telling me to never date someone like Shep Rose from Southern Charm. Those were some of her final words to me, and I polled all of the women and my family, and it turned out she only said that to me. It was her last passive-aggressive dig that she could get away with because it was funny. I couldn’t fault her for that being her final goodbye because much of my career consisted of snark. It was the greatest gift she gave me, even better than the Tiffany bracelets and American Girl Dolls.

Reality television was the antidote for my unceasing pain, and Rock of Love was my North Star during the grimiest, most disgusting parts of my grieving process. Rock of Love felt like the warmest blanket on the coldest night. I heard someone verbatim describe heroin use that way once, and that’s perfect because Rock of Love was my heroin.

The show followed Poison frontman Bret Michaels as he sought out a girlfriend in a lineup that was the veritable who’s who of the Wednesday afternoon shift at a strip club. The man was still stuck in the 80’s, with that era being the only time he was relevant instead of a punchline. Half of his suitresses hadn’t moved on from that era either, and it showed with their dated fashion and teased hair as if they were auditioning to be gyrating on the hood of a car for a Whitesnake music video. The other half of the group was born in the 1980s and only heard of Bret because their moms were big fans of his.

@sooooooopphhHow did my parents let me watch this bullshit #rockoflove #brettmichaels #fyp

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The prize wasn’t even an engagement to Bret or any gesture of commitment. As it turned out, he had a long-term girlfriend living at his Bel Air mansion a stone’s throw away from the Rock of Love estate. She had just given birth to their first daughter. The only other things these ladies had ever won were wet t-shirt contests and lube wrestling competitions, so validation from Bret seemed like the ultimate prize to them. They all had absolutely nothing going for them and as someone whose Amex just got declined at Taco Bell after a Candy Crush spending spree, I had nothing going for me either. I was judging them from my grief cocoon of weighted blankets and rapidly disintegrating sweatpants that I wore for two weeks straight, and it was pure bliss.

I quickly fell in love with the ladies from this show. They were scrappy and unapologetic, qualities that I couldn’t help but adore. I’ll never forget Aubry (and yes, that’s how it’s spelled), a bartender who was consoling her cast member Kristy Jo, a Playmate who was crying over her second soon-to-be ex-husband. “I’m very good at reading people,” Aubry said in a confessional. “It’s because I host karaoke nights every week at the bar I work at.” She was so sincere, she earnestly believed that emceeing an evening of drunken revelers belting out Journey and Styx somehow gave her any sort of credibility. It’s these unshakable convictions that made these girls so bingeable, and as someone who was too ashamed to look in the mirror or leave the house, I couldn’t help but admire it.

Then, of course, there was Bret. The classiest thing about this man is that he wore a top hat in his leaked sex tape with Pamela Anderson as if he was some member of the British parliament or an old timey oil tycoon. His philistine antics and self-entitlement were some of the ickiest things to be committed to cellophane. His grand entrance in the premiere episode consisted of him riding in on a motorcycle as a gaggle of women cheered him on. “Rock and roll is an insatiable bitch goddess, but she is my one true love,” he declared. “And I’m looking for that one girl to participate in that threesome.” Bret echoed back to this iconic line in the finale when he asked his final two ladies if they wanted to be in a throuple so he wouldn’t be obligated to choose. Bret was only capable of writing one hit song, so he was oblivious to this full-circle moment being so poetic.

@mysticmalloryllewelynRock of Love Season 1 Finale 🎸to this day some of the funniest shit I’ve ever seen.🌹 #rockoflove #2007 #poison #funny #bretmichaels #wild #vh1 #throwback #backstagepass #realitytv #reality #entertainment #funny #entertaining #vintage #everyrosehasitsthorn #😂 #crazy #wildin #wild #whatishappening #early2000s #nostalgia #talkingincircles

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Make no mistake: the producers knew Bret was terrible, and they made no attempts to humanize someone who is so subhuman. I was 30 years old watching this unfold from a beanbag chair, so I wasn’t acting particularly human at the time either. Years later, the producers said that Bret had no idea how to talk to women because he never went through a typical courtship process or even a real date. He instead careened from one groupie hookup to the next, with some lovebombing intermittently mixed in. He had no capacity for platonic or romantic intimacy with women because he was so stunted. It was a struggle for production to get him to have a conversation longer than two minutes where he was capable of actively listening and engaging with a woman. Honestly, that’s how I felt at the time too, incapable of connecting with others. Not many people knew how to talk to me, either, so I weirdly felt a kinship with Bret.

I look back at that time in my life with empathy and a twinge of disgust, and I can’t help but think that the only reason I got through that period of my life was because of Rock of Love. The grit and shamelessness those ladies had as a result of being as equally fatherless as I was was the dose of levity I needed to pull through. Everyone around me was trying to coax me into hugs, looking at me with so much pity that it was mortifying, and throwing whatever platitudes they could at me in hopes that something would stick. Sometimes it’s not about trying to make it better, but rather sitting in it and wallowing, and I couldn’t have done it without the insatiable bitch goddesses from Rock of Love.

It’s that time of year when your feed is full of gift guides, crockpot holiday recipes, and infographics about how to deal with relatives you’ve informally diagnosed with a smattering of Dark Triad traits. Instead of scrolling Black Friday deals for Barefoot Dreams blankets and Diptyque candles or confessing to your therapist that you might be the common denominator in your family’s chaos, why not plot a little revenge? Here are fun, festive, and completely legal ways to ruin the holidays for your flesh-and-blood — inclusive and non-denominational.

Start the meal with an 18‑minute land acknowledgement
Be sure to make uncomfortably long eye contact with your most conservative relatives. Then have everyone go around and say their pronouns and what they’re thankful for.

Propose a game of charades
Sounds innocent enough, but be bold with the prompts. Be sure to add: Saltburn, Babygirl, Human Centipede, your aunt’s recent late‑in‑life lesbianism, the “spiritual collective” your cousin keeps trying to recruit you for (HBO just dropped a doc about how it’s been credibly accused of ecoterrorism and sex trafficking), etc.

Play “Michael Jackson’s Baby”
My dad used to play this game with me and my sisters and cousins, but it’s not as sinister as it sounds. Remember when he dangled a baby from a hotel balcony in Germany? Do that with the littlest ones, but only from the second or third floor (I’m not trying to get sued). That game is actually one of my fondest childhood memories, but nobody plays it anymore on account of “cancel culture.”

Bring a Ouija board
Make it a family game night! Communicate with your deceased relatives from beyond and ask them all the ways their living offspring continue to bring shame upon the bloodline. It’ll be a hoot and a half.

Convert to veganism
Bring tofurkey and other plant‑based accoutrements to the table. Insist your relatives try it — they’d be rude not to. Shovel second servings onto their plate as they feign that it doesn’t taste like baby food.

Body shots!!!!
Exactly what it sounds like. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.

Bring a family therapist as your plus‑one
Have an intervention! Hash out your cousin’s Oedipus complex with his mom! Talk about how your cousin married her college professor! Read everyone to filth.

Get your youngest cousin a pony for Christmas
Leave it upstairs to surprise them. Fun fact: horses can walk upstairs, but not downstairs.

Pull a Yolanda Hadid and use the name cards as a secret ranking system

https://www.bravotv.com/embeddable-player/10433711

The video won’t embed but surely you remember that infamous dinner party where Yolanda Hadid put hearts on placecards of people she favored to escalate tension. Numbers, letters, symbols — whatever your heart desires. It’s psychological warfare at its finest, so go wide with it.

Human charcuterie board
Again, exactly what it sounds like — like a human sushi platter but with cured meats, cheeses, and chutneys. Be sure to hide the meat rose somewhere special. Bonus: you’ll get first dibs!

I’d like to start off with an apology to all my followers — all 54 of you — for depriving you of a Substack these past few days that I know you’ve been frothing at the bit for, rabidly awaiting my next post. It’s not that I’m self-conscious, or that I lack discipline, or possess a predilection for self-sabotage.

It’s because I don’t have my own evil lair.

Ever since I was a little girl, I was conditioned to believe that misunderstood geniuses such as myself had secret lairs. Maybe it’s because children’s movies don’t take into account the complexity of owning multiple properties, but I really was led to believe I was entitled to a space I could call my own to ideate, nourish, and scheme — like Disney villains or the kids in The Little Rascals. When I was a hormonal 16-year-old boarding school dropout with maladaptive tendencies, I watched Cruel Intentions in awe, captivated by Kathryn Merteuil already having an evil lair to seduce her stepbrother into having anal sex with her while plotting her ascension to power at such a young age. I know Saddam Hussein was a bit controversial, but even I marveled at the opulence of his evil lair when I was 12. Watching that Sam Rockwell dance number in Charlie’s Angels awakened something in me, and I don’t just mean sexually. Behold, Sam Rockwell in all his fuck-up-your-life-hot glory:

And you know what? Revenge is fun, but only when you’re in a setting conducive to both productivity and the creative process. Now, we don’t have the means or resources to exact our revenge while maintaining a high quality of life.

When I envisioned adulthood during my formative years, I imagined a lot more clandestine escapades, sexual espionage, and even recon (not that I know what that is). All taking place in some secluded spot that could only be accessed by boat or helicopter. Baroque décor, gothic architecture. Taking measured sips from chalices and goblets while smirking menacingly and scribbling manifestos in leather-bound tomes and ancient scrolls. Having stare-downs with my arch nemeses across a sweeping dining table adorned with candelabras. Grand entryways, grander staircases. Velvet, antiques, and shit you have to buy on the black market or at Sotheby’s auctions.

Maybe evil lairs have become pathetic in recent years because the biggest losers imaginable are the only ones who can afford them. Osama bin Laden’s hideaway in Abbottabad was a frat house with cheap mattresses, littered with porn tapes, weed, and Whitney Houston paraphernalia. Kanye West spent tens of millions gutting an architecturally significant Malibu home to install ramps because of his crippling fear of staircases. The White House has a monstrosity of a ballroom using our taxpayer dollars. These people that have wielded a dangerous amount of power are just total fucking pussies.

New York, once the cultural heartbeat of America, has deteriorated as well. Now creatives are fleeing the city. It’s finance people and influencers who have taken over Gotham. No genius plan has ever been hatched in the presence of a Jonathan Adler ruggable. No one has ever gingerly stroked a goldendoodle’s fur with a dastardly grin while perched on a boucle couch plotting revenge. You know what kind of lame evil ideas are hatched in those spots? SkinnyTok. Actively participating in Pornhub comment sections. Whatever Serena Kerrigan is doing. Those things aren’t like, spectuarly or deliciously evil or anything, just more of…loser behavior.

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Renting an Airbnb isn’t any better. The most creative thing to come out of a home with a terribly executed nautical theme is one of Rachael Ray’s five-minute meals. You can’t avenge your family’s legacy from a pleather couch you’re pretending not to recognize from casting couch porn. Shiplap, vinyl siding, Chip and Joanna Gaines bullshit.

I don’t know where we go from here. No one has ever ideated anything earth-shattering from a co-working space. Can you imagine a Bond villain plotting while sipping Lipton tea that’s either blisteringly hot or frigid cold (never in between) in the midst of an open floor plan within earshot of two tech startup bros playing ping pong? The abrasive overhead lighting alone is too much to bear.

Now I’m beholden to my parents’ coastal New England abode overlooking the stupid ocean with its dumb pool and idiotic sauna. The vibrant, idyllic foliage is a distraction, as are the carefully curated antiques my mom got during day trips to Litchfield and cunty family paintings of my ancestors. Absolutely none of this is conducive to productivity. It has nothing to do with my debilitating ADHD or anxiety. It’s not because I can’t stop looking at screens and seeking distractions. It’s not my perfectionist tendencies, my fear of rejection, or my complicated relationship with vulnerability or shame.

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All I’m asking for is a fortress of solitude or remote island where I can say things like “Guards, seize him!” or “Who goes there?” or “Curses!” A place so remote I could hunt humans for sport if I wanted to and get away with it (not that I would — I just like the aesthetic).

So here I sit, patiently I wait for inspiration to strike so prose can pour seamlessly from my fingertips, already edited for fluidity and clarity. But alas, that moment has yet to strike. It’s not my fault I was promised writing would always be a marketable skill, only for my career to be taken over by AI.

And you know where I’d ideally hatch a plan in retaliation to robots taking over? Say it with me now: a secret lair.

To the guy who tried to buy pictures of my poop in 2018,

When we first connected, I was an untamed ingénue — a Manhattan-based writer on the rise. They’ve only made, like, a million television shows and movies based on that premise alone, and here I was, living it and loving it. Between the invites to star-studded soirees, the free skincare, and the fabulous stories of mingling with celebrities and editors, it all felt worth the menial paycheck. For the first time in my life, I was confident that I had a bright future ahead of me. I was riding high and thought nothing could stop me.

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So when I first opened your DM propositioning me to keep a “poop diary” for a week in exchange for money, I must admit that it gave me pause. It’s only awkward if you make it awkward — and I certainly played a role by making it awkward. Enough time has passed for us both to admit how judgmental we were of each other at the time: me of you for your… alternative lifestyle choices, and you of me for demanding more money. I continued to be ruthlessly dismissive when you said you developed this fetish because society is conditioned to act like girls pooping doesn’t ever happen, and it turned you on to see photographic evidence of us doing something so, in your words, “forbidden.” It was rude of me to block you — but it was also a little much for you to message me from an alternate account to try again.

I was honestly in shock that someone would propose such a thing, even though I had a laissez-faire approach to sex in my articles about Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina candles, kegel thrones, and the vibrators I got gifted by PR. I couldn’t imagine looking my father in the eye knowing I was being subsidized by prostituting my bowel movements. It was an act of bad faith to assume writing would always be a marketable skill — like my elders told me — and that I’d be rolling in cash and credibility down the line. Boy, was I wrong.

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I was woefully misguided when I assumed intelligence, consistency, and hard work would get me somewhere. I did the math recently and realized I made more money in one day from the lemonade stands I ran as a little girl than I did writing “part-time” for major websites that took over my life like a full-time job. Looking back, I see that you were one of the only people out there willing to compensate me fairly for something that came from my gut.

It’s gotten to the point where I’ve maxed out on desperation. I keep getting rejected from jobs, I got rejected from grad school, I even started doing The Artist’s Way. That desperation that comes with irrelevance has calloused into liberation. No matter how many times I reach out through mutual contacts, email hiring managers, or try to get my résumé past ATS, it’s pointless — and I’ve finally reconciled with the fact that the system failed me. I’m just focused on building something for myself, on my own, at 33. And I’m oddly confident that it’ll work out in ways I can’t yet imagine.

AI has replaced my entire career. The industry I dreamed of being a part of as a little girl is hemorrhaging jobs. One thing AI can’t do, though? Take creamy chocolate shits. Oh! And silver lining: my dad has died since we last spoke, so I don’t have to worry about bringing shame upon him anymore!

The only thing more forbidden for a woman than pooping is being 33, single, and completely irrelevant. Honestly, keeping a poop diary sounds easier than doing Morning Pages. With that being said, I literally had to pay for a Taco Bell order in loose change the other day, so I could really use the money. Would it be possible for you to Apple Pay me? Venmo feels a little too public. I’d be happy to send proof of my Taco Bell habit — if you know what I mean ;)

With love, light, and zero judgment,
xx Millicent

So this year, I’ve compiled a list of costumes for those who are tastefully slutty and perpetually misunderstood. For those who want to be high-brow and low-class while caked in stripper glitter. And fear not — these costumes also work if you’re a distastefully chaste, painfully tedious idiot.

Bethenny Frankel eating UberEats crab legs from her hotel

@bethennyfrankelI seafood and eat it #seafoodboil #oldbay #mukbang

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A truly harrowing visual that was an assault on my FYP. Get a cushy hotel robe, a silver champagne bucket from wherever, and fill it with these plastic seafood boil decorations. Accessorize with rubber gloves and a plastic bib that you can easily get for free at a local seafood shop or restaurant.

The 27 Club

Do you have more than three friends? Oh my God, that must be so fun for you! Anyways, super chic idea is to go as the pop culture icons who are members of The 27 Club, as long as you’re tasteful about it.

Hunter Biden’s leaked laptop photo

Invest in a pair of Adidas red-striped sambas! They’re cute and you can get a lot of wear out of them. Obviously, if you’re not brave enough to don a jockstrap from Dick’s, you can go to Duane Reade or CVS and buy some cheap tighty whities and, of course, socks to stuff your crotch with. If you have boobs, you can buy one of those cheesy hairy chest t-shirts or a flesh colored tube top. Accessorize with Ray Ban aviators and a red scarf!

Kevin Carpet

@nalabanana2.0You can never call NY boring #nyc #kevincarpet

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You know, that performance artist who monopolized the sidewalks of New York by wrapping himself up in a carpet so people step on him. Apparently it’s a kink for him. Take a rug or two and either fashion a wrap or sandwich board. Use paint to draw shoeprints. Carry around a bottle of Jergens to really drive home the fetish part.

Jordon Hudson

You know you’re the Patron Saint of gold diggers if you own the copyright the term! A statue being erected in Bill Belichick’s better half at Casa Cipriani is a near inevitability at this point, but in the meantime, wear a tiara and a sash that’s emblazoned with “Miss Hancock” or “Miss Maine Second Runner Up” if you’re feeling snarky. Buy some cheap fantasy football rings (tragic that those exist). Wear a glitzy pageant dress or the same oversized Patriots sweatshirt she infamously wore on the red carpet. Obviously, pair it with white thigh high boots!

Dale Mercer’s iconic scene on High Society

High Society may be the most offensive show committed to cellophane, but it’s still iconic enough to memorialize as a costume. Go as Dale Mercer checking out literature on German aristocracy at the New York Public Library! Get a stiff cunty brunette bob and wear a Lingua Franca sweater (or just a t-shirt) embroidered with the quote “Goodness gracious, what a history!” Go to the library and check out a book on Germany’s…colorful history. Finish it off by spritzing yourself with an abundance of Chanel No. 5!

The Olsen Twins X Damien Hirst’s $55,000 pill-covered backpack for The Row

How could we ever forget one of the most scandalous bags to ever exist? It’s really easy to replicate too! Just take a cheap faux-leather jacket and leggings and hot glue a bunch of resin pills from Etsy all over it! Pair with. a gold necklace and a UNICEF trick-or-treat box because apparently part of proceeds went to that exact charity. Who woulda thunk?

Kristen Doute picking up her mail from her ex-boyfriend’s house on Vanderpump Rules

IYKYK. Green mini dress with maximum cleavage and a stack of mail that you’ll never open. Boom.

George Santos’ drag queen alter ego

I hate myself for knowing that George Santos’ has a drag queen persona named Kitara. Buy an orange prison jumpsuit and sharpie either “Santos” or “Kitara” in the nametag area. Get a cheap vampy wig and even cheaper blue eye shadow and red lipstick. Complete the look with (obviously fake) diamond costume jewelry.

Ashley Olsen with a machete

White pants. White sweatshirt half tucked up into a black tank. White (I’m assuming button down) shirt tie around the waist. Black Yeezys. Orthopedic sunglasses you get at a pharmacy down the street. And a rubber machete. It feels a little weird that I have to insist on a rubber machete, but I don’t want to get sued if something goes awry.

Lana del Rey working a shift at Waffle House

Blue shirt, Waffle House nametag that says “Lana,” black shorts, messy bun, winged eyeliner.

The glass of milk from Babygirl

Take a white slip dress. If you wanna get Freudian, wear a baby bib that says “Good Girl.” If that’s a bridge too far, just emblazon “Good Gir” on your dress with rhinestones or something. Your makeup should be dewy and glowy with a milk mustache, ofc. Also add some red lipstick marks to your clavicle.

Ben Affleck having an existential crisis

Either have someone draw a massive phoenix tattoo on your back or buy the t-shirt rendering of it. Pair with a dingy blue looking towel and a look of impending doom.

The Narrator from My Year of Rest and Relaxation

A Juicy velour tracksuit would be ideal, but if you only have luxe sleepwear and perhaps a Whoopi Goldberg shirt, that’ll do as well. Accessorize with a silk sleep mask. Obvious choice is to carry around a copy of the book, but if you wanna have fun with it, carry around a Caboodle full of party favors.

Club Chalamet

T-shirt with one of her many unhinged tweets paired with a nalgene bottle that says “Timmy’s bathwater” on it. Bonus points for carrying around a restraining order from Kylie Jenner.

Kate Moss’ Supreme poster

Leopard print jacket + Supreme t-shirt + partially smoked cig + cheekbones

RFK Jr. working out in jeans

Trashy fake tan + Wrangler jeans + unsettling blue eye contacts. Get a plastic set of washboard abs they typically sell for superhero costumes. Take a shot of antifreeze if you wanna imitate his voice. Actually, don’t. Thank me later if Olivia Nuzzi slides into your DMs.

Lisa Frank

Don’t be that asshole that goes as Lisa Frankenstein because it’s a little too cute. But buy a kigurumi of any animal of your choosing and buy some candy colored face paint and hair coloring spray. Of course, invest in some stripper glitter for that extra razzle dazzle!

Brad Pitt’s “Need Money for Porsche” Look

If I have to explain to you how to recreate this costume, you’re less of tastefully slutty, esoterically literate genius and more of a dumb virgin idiot.

Rachel Green from Friends

After all, Halloween is a slutty holiday, so why not go as the Queen of Nipping Out? Everybody knows that Friends only stayed on the air for that long because Jennifer Aniston’s nipples were visible in every scene. First, get a blowout. Then, emulate whatever season your blowout most resemebles. There’s a billion guides on how to dress like Rachel. The most important part is to buy a Skims nipple bra or tape two marbles on an extra padded bra if you’re in a pinch. Or if you wanna go all out, legit go as her nipples with your better half.

Let’s nip this in the bud: I know that the headline sounds like I tried to break Bonnie Blue’s sex record and Jeremy Piven came and admonished me for being too perverted. But I assure you, the truth is so much more pathetic.

I’ve become allergic to the Internet as of late. Charlie Kirk’s execution that happened while he was defending gun ownership was poetry. Like poetry written by a 17-year-old girl who just discovered Rupi Karr and rubbing herself up against her pillow: a little too on the nose with the metaphor for my taste, but still disturbing to witness.

So I did a digital detox, and a few days later, I plugged back into the matrix. Nothing had changed. The algorithm was still trying to convince me to care about Kylie Kelce. I was still carrying my Township co-op on my back. Jimmy Kimmel was already back on television; his “cancellation” proved to be an inevitable boon for his objectively waning ratings. Candace Owens shifted awfully fast from grieving her best friend’s death to somehow blaming it on Israel, which my shrink and I had a laugh over. So predictable.

The feeling of superiority I had quickly dissipated because it was superseded by both ends of the political spectrum clogging up my feed. Look, I vote democrat very consistently, but these limousine liberals monopolizing my algorithm were somehow more vexing than alt-right professional trolls. Lamenting how “Handmaid’s Tale is now our reality” while clutching their Van Cleef necklaces over the state of our country. “I’m scared for my children’s future.” I agree — rights for marginalized groups, along with education, healthcare, and the economy, are fucked. But honey, you live in Brooklyn and send your kids to an alternative school that doesn’t give grades or homework. You pay $80,000 a year for your kid to be part of our nation’s increasing illiteracy rate. You fucked your kids’ future yourself.

I needed to experience the opposite of digital emotional whiplash. Something that didn’t require me to think. Something so irrelevant that it hasn’t been trending in years.

As cosmic kismet would have it, Jeremy Piven was performing a comedy show a couple of hours away. There’s way too much Internet out there, so a comedy set by an over-the-hill actor sounded enticing.

In recent years, Jeremy Piven has rebranded himself as a comedian who’s ostracized from the Hollywood Machine. This guy panders to audiences by bitching about the coastal elite, hoping that we forget about the time he resigned from a David Mamet play because he got mercury poisoning for eating sushi every day for decades. Remember when the pandemic first hit, and all those celebrities sang “Imagine” by John Lennon to connect with the common man? Jeremy Piven’s comedy resonated with the Common Man more than that. Devastating, I know.

So there I was, perched in a sea of straight guys at The Wilbur on a Friday night. I had a red Sharpie scribble on my hand after getting carded and not having my license at the front door. While the employees of the Wilbur claim they’re on the lookout for underage drinking, I read enough Perez Hilton in the early aughts to know they were pretty much emblazoning me with a bullseye to let Jeremy know that I’m barely legal but still under 21. Little do they know that while I’m young enough to be Jeremy’s daughter, I’m too old to hook up with him. Also, I’m the height he probably pretends to be.

I sat between a couple of younger guys that I assume bonded during pledge week while doing an elephant walk together, and some couples on a group date, bonding over how they love Kid Rock. I don’t even drink often these days, but it was then and there that I knew I couldn’t do this sober, so I hid my Scarlet Lettered hand in my sleeve and ordered a vodka soda, make it a double.

While it was a chilly September night, Jeremy Piven made a warm Summer’s Eve as he burst onto the stage like a comet of douchebaggery. I haven’t been in the same room as a bunch of straight guys in years, but their cheering on Jeremy might have been the gayest thing I’ve ever seen, and I say this as someone who lived with the softball team in college.

Jeremy did the exact kind of routine that I would expect from a guy who was nicknamed “The Pivert” by gossip blogs during his glory days. He made jokes about big pharma, how L.A. is soooooo P.C. now, how he doesn’t care that much about trans athletes as long as he gets to bet money on the male to female competitors, how girls he dates are botched from silicon and botox. Of course, he also did celebrity impersonations of Mike Tyson because heteros consider that peak comedy.

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The set moved onto crowdwork, which he was actually quite adept at. He asked the microscopic sector of women in the audience if they liked bad boys. Every girl there besides me was there with their boyfriend, so it was I who was left to respond.

“Yeah!” I half heartedly shouted out.

“You do?”

“Yeah!” I responded. “Hunter Biden!”

Jeremy Piven stopped in his tracks. “Hunter Biden? You’re fucking weird.” The entire audience burst out into applause and cheered. “Why do you like him?”

I don’t know, Jer-Bear. Maybe it’s because two of my high school English teachers were #MeToo’d. Maybe it’s because after I lost my virginity, the guy high-fived me and told me I “took it like a champ.” Maybe it’s because during my formative years, I was conditioned to believe that Entourage was prestige television. Would you like me to list out every maladaptive trait I have that led me to my attraction to Hunter Biden? A guy who’s known worldwide for taking selfies of himself while engaging in illicit activities, but the only part of that I’m repelled by is that he’s an adult man who takes selfies?

So I just responded, “He has a Malibu beach house!” Indeed, he does, and it has a waterslide.

Turns out Piven was able to work with that response. “Girls will love a serial killer because at least he’s a homeowner, right? But you…you’re fucking weird.” The Wilbur once again erupted into applause and cheering.

There are a few reasons why I think I’m doing anything right these days. I’m trying to move up in the eroding media industry. I’ve been single for way too many years to the point where my shrink called me “independent to a fault.” I’d rather watch Flea Market Flip with my mother and criticize the contestants than mingle with people my own age at bars and dinner parties. I had a once-promising career, but now I’m pretty much irrelevant. Oh my God, I think I have something in common with Jeremy Piven.

But The Pivert verbally incinerating me while a crowd of some of his most obnoxious fans (and everyone knows Boston has the most…spirited fans) was a sign that maybe, just maybe I’m doing something right.