This is more like it. You’re finally getting it, internet.
ETA: Dammit:
The Ten Stages of a Raw Juice Cleanse
- Self-Congratulation
- Determination
- Euphoria
- Delusions of Gwyneth Paltrow
- Light-Headedness
- Unfortunate Gastro-Intestinal Events
- Anger
- Bargaining
- Sadness
- Tacos
Step One: Cut a Hole in the Box
So, this is a person with a blog. Judging from her many sponsors — the main one is BlogHer — and commenters, her blog is fairly popular.
She would like a “bikini body” in time for summer here in the Northern Hemisphere. If the magazines that assault me when I’m at Duane Reade stocking up on jelly beans and popcorn are any indication, this desire is shared by many.
If you don’t see me around, just call into the void.
I was eating a cold leftover egg roll while investigating a raw juice cleanse, and then I disappeared into a vortex of cognitive dissonance. Tell my dogs I loved them.
I think we need to clarify basic definitions before we continue this conversation.
Let’s leave aside the terrifying image of hordes of babies with assault rifles, shooting up the joint every time they don’t feel like taking a nap or are not allowed to have another cookie.
If they are babies? They have ALREADY BEEN BORN, and thus, were not aborted. I mean, I guess the armed babies could form some kind of vigilante group to terrorize abortion clinics and attempt to stop future abortions, but that’s a whole separate issue.
You win… you always do.
It seems that King of States! readers do not visit this blog for insights into the state of tech startup hiring and management – utterly shocking. However, while I will not cave to popular demand and start writing Iceberg Hunters fanfic, please know that there is a great deal more strident feminism yet to be expressed here.
In the meantime, here’s a picture of one of my dogs totally judging you:
A Reading from the Gospel of Molly E. Holzschlag
Bow your heads and pretend to be serious.
This past weekend, I attended a gathering of several hundred computer-oriented college-age young men (and a few women) wearing novelty sweatpants, otherwise known as a “hackathon.”
So we’re not even trying to pretend anymore, is that right?
Okay, yes, you want to exercise your not-at-all-made-in-the-context-of-patriarchy choice to wear stiletto heels because they make you feel powerful and you like the way your ass looks? Fine, I’m not going to stop you, although I will help you pick out a nice pair of Birkenstocks if you decide to come to the dark side. But you’ve gotta throw me a fucking bone, y’know?
It’s not a good time to be a vagina-possessing person in North Dakota.
I’m sorry that you’ve been legally demoted from “person” to “incubator.” As always, New Jersey welcomes you.
Parts of southern New Jersey are barren wastelands similar to what I image North Dakota is like, so you should feel pretty comfortable here.
