It's not that Cooke doesn't offer good examples of this feminist regression — she does, from the country's deplorable rape conviction rate to the media's mauling of Amy Winehouse — it's that she, and the editors of the Observer, barely managed to speak to young British feminists about what was going on in the grass roots of the current movement.

Sure, she has one brief quote from 27-year-old Jess McCabe, the woman behind the excellent UK Feminist website The F Word, but of the eight articles about women in the Observer special, not a single one is written by an emerging feminist or speaks in depth to a woman under 35. There's an article about the women behind the 1970 National Women's Liberation Conference, and another article which is an interview with retired newscaster Anna Ford. But the only article that even attempts to speak to women in their 20s, barely bothers to speak to women specifically involved in the feminist movement.

That particular article, "What's it like to be young, female and living in Britain?" asks a range of young women, from models to Olympic athletes to a few activists, about their personal experiences. Silver medallist in modern pentathlon, Heather Fell, says: "In some ways I'm a traditionalist — I think the man should be there to look after the woman. For me, feminism means women thinking we can do everything without needing men and I don't agree with that." They speak to a 21-year-old engineer who says she's never encountered sexism, and a model who helped found the model's union in the UK who says, "I never liked the word 'feminist' — for me it always meant being against men, whereas I see myself fighting for general equality." One of only two self-proclaimed feminists the Observer talks to is burgeoning politician Rania Khan, who says "I describe myself as a feminist, but feminism doesn't make sense to me as a separate entity. I see it as part of the wider struggle for equality, alongside class and race. I want to see more women, especially from ethnic minorities, involved in politics. Women need to be educated and empowered to take those key positions; only then will we see change."

Khan's brief comments in that one article say far more about the state of modern feminism than the thousands of words spilled by older, and dare I say, more out of touch feminist lights. It's a movement that has become more global, and while it's certainly less cut and dry than the battles those 70s feminists were fighting, that doesn't mean the current issues are not important, or that feminism is dead. This is not to denigrate those incredibly important battles in the least, but I wonder if in some ways, it's time for print media to start handing over the mantle.

Two self-proclaimed feminists I see published in the MSM quite frequently are Germaine Greer and Camille Paglia. Both these women have contributed to the feminist lexicon, but these days they seem to be purely deliberate provocateurs, one of whom is obsessed with denigrating Hillary Clinton's appearance, and the other busy lashing out at Lady Di. The Observer's spread even includes one of these past-prime provocateurs, Fay Weldon, who has written in the Daily Mail recently about how teen girls should be temporarily sterilized and how the Spice Girls ruined feminism. Maybe the picture of modern feminism would not seem so bleak to the Observer if they looked beyond the old-fashioned, all-white faces of 20th century feminism to the new movements roiling right under their noses, yet curiously off their pages.

How Far Have We Come In 80 Years? [Guardian]
It's Been A Long Journey — And We're Not There Yet [Guardian]
The Interview: Anna Ford [Guardian]
What's It Like To Be Young, Female And Living In Britain? [Guardian]

Earlier: Camille Paglia Hates Hillary, Loves Mailer, Is Miffed At Madonna
Who's Afraid Of The Badly Dressed Princess?
Daily (Hate) Mail
British Novelist Says Spice Girls Made Generation Y Drunk, Slutty

"I'm worried," she says. "Jana is beautiful and younger, and Bob is Bob, but you, you I worry about. You need someplace to go."

But it's hard not to think: "well, Trader Joe's, obviously!" In the movie, he would meet a younger, liberally tattooed ingenue, one of those twentysomething girls in that stage where you're grappling with what comes after precocious, and they would fall in a sort of resigned kind of love. And my friends would go see that movie, just so one of us could eviscerate it on the internet, because there has to be some way to retaliate against the uncomfortable suspicion that being young and beautiful is actually, in this economy and in life, such a necessary scam if you happen to be a female. We should all get to be as deeply pathetic as T.L. Shine!

Times Magazine Dapples Sunlight On Its Memoirist [Observer]

1. The other day I thought I had genital warts. I have long felt I was more than long due to contract some sort of venereal disease, so I greeted the thought with rational calm until, at some point over the weekend, I began to imagine that the warts actually hurt, and that if I ignored the pain too long I could potentially die from them. That feeling — actually a hangover — soon passed and then on Monday I received an Gchat message from an old friend saying "I have genital warts" — or more accurately, "Answer your phone or I'm going to have to send you a crap email" — and we hadn't fucked in six months. I immediately thought, what a fun post, "The Guy That Gave You That Particular Strain Of HPV Is Actually The Guy You Fucked Half A Year Ago" …and felt glad. And then the bump went away. I think it was an ingrown hair. [Told you! -Ed.] All of which is an overshare-y way of saying: There is clearly something cathartic, something beyond exhibitionism, to this oversharing stuff; do you not see it? All of us occasionally fixate on our own mortality. I am not a neurotic person, perhaps because these days, I am quick to convert those dark feelings — and seriously, what do we have to be so fucking dark about? — into text. Whatever the fear or fate — herpes, date rape, bankruptcy, failure — there's something worth laughing about there.

2. In her piece, Emily totally skipped the part where she was going to become a yoga teacher because she wanted to "help people." She told me this one evening over pinot grigio and scallops, and I thought, "what a complete crock of shit." But I think yoga is a good thing and that Emily does want to help people; I would simply rather she tell me jokes than lead me in meditation. So thanks Emily: "Project Gayway" is my new favorite show, and the line "Josh and I sat together on the couch, and I put my head on his shoulder in a completely friendly, professional way" made me LOL.

3. When the time came for Emily to collect the books and bras and other miscellaneous possessions she'd left at Josh's house she actually referred to them as "Emilyana." Emily's self-absorption is a joke that, although it got less funny, is now funny once again. It is the human condition to be self-absorbed. But it is not the human condition to lack empathy, as narcissists supposedly do. (Inasmuch a emotions are real, empathy is real, and serves to temper our selfishness and make life worth living.) If I'd written such a story for the Times magazine I would have tried to write it smellier and drunker and more self-lacerating, and because fewer people might relate to it, you could see in that my own form of narcissism, who knows. Like Nietzsche said, there are no facts, only interpretations, and the thing is you don't have to buy into his interpretations of things if you've gotten to the point where you find misanthropy sort of boring.

4. I Used To Have This Theory, About Nick Denton. He left the media and created Gawker so NO ONE COULD EVER AGAIN LEAVE THE MEDIA; they would be too preoccupied with the mundane trivialities and their respective trajectories up the Zeitgeist index and the ceaseless trade of imaginary currency to notice NO ONE IS MAKING MONEY IN THIS FUCKING BUSINESS ANYMORE except Nick Denton. To quoth The Idiot, again:

"Such omniscient gentlemen are to be found pretty often in a certain stratum of society. They know everything. All the restless curiosity
and faculties of their mind are irresistibly bent in one direction, no doubt from lack of more important ideas and interests in life, as the critic of today would explain. But the words, "they know everything," must be taken in a rather limited sense: in what department so-and-so serves, who are his friends, what his income is, where he was governor, who his wife is and what dowry she brought him, who are his first cousins and who are his second cousins, and everything of that sort. For the most part these omniscient gentlemen are out at elbow, and receive a salary of seventeen roubles a month.

Now they get paid by the page view.

The people of whose lives they know every detail would be at a loss to imagine their motives. Yet many of them get positive consolation out of this knowledge, which amounts to a complete science, and derive from it self-respect and their highest spiritual gratification. And indeed it is a fascinating science. I have seen learned men, literary men, poets, politicians, who sought and found in that science their loftiest comfort and their ultimate goal, and have indeed made their career only by means of it.

5. But no, there is more to it than all that. People need people. Even Denton, who can be very kind now that he has found love! Loneliness and alienation are only really fun when you find someone else who's into Kafka too. That's the whole fucking point of the myth of Narcissus. People want company, community, friendship, connectedness, they want to be needed, they want to be loved, and love exists — I like to say love = verisimilitude of love + time — and the problem with the Internet and New York is that there is way too much verisimilitude and never enough time. But I have known Emily, and all you guys, for a year now, and my fondness is real and genuine and not, I hate to break it to you, borne of narcissism.

Blog-Post Confidential [NY Times]

Lol.

What can I say ladies, it's a boy's club out there.

Journal Women [WSJ]

Earlier: Heather "Dooce" Armstrong Makes Kathie Lee Uncomfortable
Dooce: Proof That Not All Our Pregnancies Need To End In Abortion?

Earlier: Dooce: Proof That Not All Our Pregnancies Need To End In Abortion?

Legal ramifications notwithstanding, it seems that the potential for collateral damage to children is a good reason for divorcing couples to keep their dirty laundry for margarita-laden dinners and phone conversations with friends. But blogger Penelope Trunk, author of the Brazen Careerist blog, defends the notion of mothers talking smack about their ex-husbands online. Trunk, who has written a lot about the demise of her 15-year marriage on her blog, tells the Times: "The bloggers who are doing the best are those who are injecting their personal lives. We think it will be a big deal, but it won't be to [our children]. By the time they are old enough to read it, they will have spent their entire life online. It will be like, 'Oh yeah, I expected that.' "

Child psychiatrist Irene Goldenberg disagrees with Trunk's assessment. "It is not good for children to get personal information in that way. And people have to consider doing things in the heat of the moment. The way they feel now will not be how they feel in two years, and there is no way it can be retrieved."

I had dinner with a acquaintance last night who likened his parents divorce to breaking a bone: it's so common, you think it can't be all that big a deal so you never realize how much it's going to hurt until it happens to you. With so much possibility for pain in the immediate aftermath of a divorce, is it really worth potentially breaking that bone years after it's healed for the sake of your freedom of expression?

[Image via Broadway World]

Earlier: Why Marrying A Rich Old Dude Who Won't Fuck Will Not Solve Your Problems

My advice to you, Deep Funk, is the same as The Don's — you could act like a man! I'm gonna write a self-help book for all the people like you who are always coming crying to me — "Oh, Angry Man, my parents were mean to me and now I'm screwed up." "Oh, Angry Man, I'm depressed and I can't leave the house." "Oh, Angry Man, I'm addicted to heroin and I can't stop taking it." "Oh, Angry Man, I started a war in Iraq and now everyone knows I'm evil."

Here's my three-step recovery program: 1). Act. 2). Like. 3). A man. Stand up, leave your house and get a job you hate. Go there every morning and spend eight or ten hours doing meaningless, mind-numbing work. Come home at night and stare blankly at the television and have mundane arguments about money and toilet seats with your wife. Then make love to her while you imagine she's Anna Kournikova. Sleep fitfully. Repeat every day for thirty-five years. Work up a powder keg of resentment and stew in quiet desperation. That's what your father did. That's what your grandfather did.

The state of guys feeling they have no clear role in society may be analagous to the worker who's lost his job in the corset factory because women are no longer expected to cinch in their mid-sections before leaving the house. He can definitely point to the closing of the factory as the source of his woes, but it will ultimately be unproductive to dwell on that. The industry he built his life on ain't coming back. And if he can separate himself from the personal consequences (his inability to pay his rent, his feelings of no longer having anything to contribute), he might acknowledge that it is a positive social good that restrictive, swoon-inducing garments are no longer normal underwear. But he does need to find a new role for himself, and that may involve looking at the old skill set and seeing what will be transferable. Maybe there's some other job in which he can find himself once again contributing to the economies of his household and his society.

Act Like A Man [The Walrus]

She's had to learn to draw boundaries on what she writes, to avoid hurting loved ones. An "aching and bleeding diatribe" she posted a few years ago against her parents' faith, Mormonism, alienated them so badly that "it was like a bomb had gone off in my family," she says. "My dad didn't speak to me for several months, and my mom was devastated." She took down the posts, thinking, "OK, this is a little bit more powerful than I'd thought it would be," she says.

Maybe because he's been taking Prozac, or maybe it's because of all that HOT HOT SEX, but when I told Jon what I wanted the wall to look like, he said something like, why aim for perfection when approximation is so much easier? Which is the most romantic thing that has ever come out of his mouth, so I pushed him down on the floor and ripped off all his clothes.

The Blogger Mom, In Your Face [WSJ]

Sharon Soon of Conservatives With Attitude
"I have always had a policy of not dating liberals, but once, after a bad break-up, I dated a couple of liberal guys...First of all, they don't have the same values and I find that to be a fundamental problem. I know a lot of people are willing to accept that, but I'm not. Their whole world view is different from someone who has conservative values and traditional values as a way of life. Being focused on yourself, and your rights, and materialism, and no ultimate sense of morality — because I guess when you believe in a more secular way of life, a more liberal viewpoint, it's all about what you can do for yourself and how you can be happy...and you don't have any belief in absolute truth or religious principles to guide how you live. You get guys who are selfish and into themselves and don't care so much about humanity, other people, or me — that just leads to a lot of problems. I also have a problem with guys who are into things like getting completely trashed and doing drugs..."

Dr. Melissa Clouthier
"I wouldn't like take someone on a first date to an amusement park because you'd be stuck all day together. And even too expensive of a dinner on a first date? ...Because where do you go after that? You take her to the nicest restaurant in town because she's super hot and you want to impress her? Then it turns out you have no conversation, so you wasted a boatload of money and two, if you do like her, where are you going to take her next time to beat that?"
Michelle Oddis of Human Events
Yeah, in the past year, I think I've dated one or two [liberals]. There is usually an issue there with religion, which is kind of frustrating, because you're not necessarily going to go out on one or two dates with someone and think that you're going to marry them. But, with long term goals, how you're going to raise your kids, whether you're going to bring them to church or not, you wonder if that person is going to show the same values — there tends to be a difference there with liberal guys. Another turn-off with liberal guys, at least for me, tends to be 2nd Amendment stuff. Gun rights? I think it's kind of wimpy when guys don't think people should be able to protect themselves.

Dawn Eden, author of The Thrill Of The Chaste
...My experience with [liberals] is that superficially, they may be more fun to be around. They're a bit looser and more relaxed. They make an effort to be more sensitive, but the sensitivity only goes so far. It's easy for a man to keep this illusion of being a great, sensitive romantic if he knows he's just going to sleep with you and then say good-bye. Anybody can be Mr. Love God for one night or one week or one month.

Karol Shenin of Alarming News
"The first date should be all about "could I have a 2nd date with the person." Do we have anything to say to each other? Does he make me laugh? Is she hot? Anything that has interaction would be ideal for a first date."

This is the outfit Claudia helped me to choose: a white tank top under lavender overalls, lavender push-down socks, lavender high-top sneakers, and a beaded Indian belt, which we looped droopily twice around my middle. In my hair we put lavender-and-white clips that looked like birds. I thought they were just any kind of bird, but Claudia swore up and down that they were birds of paradise. Who knows? (I think she was making that up.)"

a super-tranny from Transylvania who is not apologizing for it. Seriously though, you know Claudia grew up to be the woman who, after spending the night with a man, sneaks out of bed at 5am and spends an hour making herself all glowing and tousled and sexified and then sneaks back into bed all "what? I always look like this in the morning!" I, on the other hand, don't even bother to wipe the drool off my pillow. Love me, love my excessive amounts of drool, that's what I say.

What Claudia Wore
BSC Headquarters
Earlier: Were You A Judy Blume Enthusiast Or A Babysitters Club Nerd?

Mike drinks while driving. He lies frequently and about everything. He has almost certainly never made a girl come. He is thoroughly shameless and unabashed about all these qualities, and on top of that, clearly dumb. And for some reason girls date him anyway. For some reason Alyssa Shelasky, Cherico's Columbia-educated (if not, uh, always particularly Columbia educated-seeming) dating blogging predecessor on the Glamour website, dated him anyway, then nearly lived with him, then recommended him to write a dating blog. And it took more than six months to produce the woman who would finally put an end to his tenure, simply by blogging the truth about dating Cherico:

I thought it was just a first time thing but the morning after we slept together, we had sex again, and I went down on him and let him finish in in my mouth. I was literally sitting there with the taste of him still in my throat when he stood up to take a shower. He had now had two orgasms to my zero, so I asked if he might orally reciprocate. He, with no hesitation or hint of sarcasm, proclaimed "I don't know you that well!" and turned on the faucet.

What a Fucking Idiot. Posted in Uncategorized on March 7, 2008 by laspinner

NOTE: Today's post is brutally honest and has strictly adult content. If you wanted an unflitered account of what it's like to date Mike Cherico, here goes.....

Yesterday I received the following email from Mike:

RE: I'madorkus

quick heads up... I LIKE YOU... A LOT! so please please please don't be mad about tomorrows [sic] post!

(Having just read his post, what he should have emailed me was something more along the lines of "I'm going to humiliate you on my blog tomorrow, hope that's ok!!!")

Earlier: Don't Date This Man
But here's what happened yesterday. I called him a couple hours after receiving the email and he immediately backtracked, saying "I was probably drunk when I wrote that." (Keep in mind he sent it at 3:30pm.) After 10 minutes of me trying to explain why that was not acceptable and that if he likes me as much as he says he does he needs to tell me things himself, not through his blog, he finally explained that when he came over for dinner last week, I had a cut on my lip that freaked him out. He was really upset that I hadn't told him what it was and instead let him wonder if it might, in fact, be herpes. I wish I was joking. Keep in mind that, when Mike showed up at my apartment for dinner and I had just gotten home at 9pm from a long day of work carrying the groceries I'd bought for our meal, he asked me if he could watch TV while I cooked. Again, not joking. After dinner, we were being snuggly and talking about sexual issues- more on that later- when he blurted out "I already had sex twice today" implying that my affections were unnecessary. (My reaction was similar to what yours might be if an alien landed on your computer while you were reading this.) The evening ended shortly thereafter for obvious reasons but not before Mike told me that the chick he'd had sex with earlier was "really hot" (insinuating that she was irresistible, unlike me) and then, again, backtracked to say that he'd made it up.

[NOTE: Because I got so angry, apparantly Mike or his editors changed that part in today's post so that it didn't refer to me specifically. Whatever. I'm telling you it was me b/c I have nothing to hide, the whole thing is pathetic, I do NOT have herpes, and Mike is an idiot for thinking so. And then he says shame on ME for putting HIM in that position? Mike, you are VILE.]

So what was actually going on was not that Mike had fucked someone else, but that he thought I had herpes, and wanted an excuse to leave . Thank god for the old "I already had sex twice today" standby. I am going to devote exactly one sentence to an explanation of the cut because it's SO not the point, but basically I had accidentally bitten my lip the day before and had a very small scab. Perhaps not sexy, and if he'd asked me about it and said it made him feel weird about kissing me I would have completely understood. But by no means was it contagious or a symptom of any greater health problem. Mike, for a graphic pic of what oral herpes actually looks like, see here. You might need it for future reference.

I don't think i need to waste space describing how distasteful and declasse I think it is for Mike to write about that in his blog rather than discussing it with me in person. I consider that an attempt to humiliate me in public for his own benefit. If he had been honest about his concern and allowed me to explain, I probably would have been ok with him bringing it up in the blog because in any physical relationship there are issues of trust, and I certainly understand not knowing how to broach that kind of topic. But instead he defended himself that he shouldn't have to bring it up because he's "sensitive," and instead made excuses not to be intimate with me over our next two dates. (Apparantly, an alternate definition of "sensitive" is "idiotic.") He then apparantly decided that he would write about it in today's post because that was MORE courteous than saying it to my face, which even he could barely say without choking on the bullshit. When I told him I found that disrespectful and that by writing such a description of me he was basically painting me as some kind of disease-ridden whore he responded that it's not like my name is on there and anyway, "I don't owe you anything." The whole thing was so juvenile and devoid of the mutual respect and trust that adult relationships are founded on that I was completely dumbfounded. Seriously, you couldn't ask me about a cut on my lip so you stew about it for a week and then embarrass me on your blog? THANKS, SWEETIE, XOXOX Miss Smarty Shoes. I have seen David Bowie movies where the world is more realistic than the one Mike lives in. He continued to seeth that there was something wrong with me for putting him in that situation, that it was clearly my responsibility to address the cut and not doing so was obviously a premeditated decision on my part to confuse and upset him. Right. Because that makes sense. Is this the kind of guy who's going to tell you you're beautiful when you're pregnant or stressed or gain five pounds or have a stuffy nose? If I really DID get sick, would I be able to turn to him for help? If he can't bring up something minor like this, could we ever have an honest conversation about REAL issues? Those are rhetorical questions.

(Please don't misinterpret my position on being honest with a sexual partner. If I had indeed had something contagious or in any way harmful, it absolutely would have been my responsibility to disclose it to Mike before being physically intimate, whether it was visually evident or not. The fact that it WAS so obvious makes me wonder how he could possibly have thought I was trying to hide it.)

I honestly didn't bring it up because I had forgotten about it. To me it was obviously a cut, and a very small one, and if the thought had ever crossed my mind that it might appear otherwise to Mike I would have pointed it out immediately. I also had a zit on my forehead and a bruise on my knee from where Gretel jumped on me, should I have pointed those out, too? Given him a tour of my body's imperfections? Is it my fault that he is RETARDED?

What makes this incident meaningful beyond its absurdity is that even when I tried to briefly explain tonight to Mike that it was a small cut, he became angry again and yelled that he barely knows me and how can he possibly trust me. No matter what I said, he was still going to worry that I was lying and that I had a disease.

So the rest of this piece is about trust and Mike Cherico.

Mike is a recreational liar. It's possible he is in fact a compulsive or pathalogical liar but I honestly don't know him well enough and I'm not going to diagnose him. He lies so naturally that he loses track of the truth. For him, if a lie is easier to say then it becomes reality (ie; when he told me he'd had sex that day rather than bringing up what was actually bothering him.)

Below are some more anecdotes about my experiences with Mike, trust and truth:

* Let's start with the "amazing woman" Mike was apparantly holding hands with at the concert that I took him too (and paid for.) If it gives you some idea of his taste in women, she was a skanky, fake-boobed bimbo wearing a slutty outfit and Uggs from 2004 who looked like she'd just come off of ROCK OF LOVE 2. If someone in this story has herpes, it was that girl. She was giving me nasty looks the whole show and I asked Mike if he'd noticed- of course not. Bear in mind that while Mike was, I now realize, holding hands with this tramp, he was also stroking my hair, kissing the top of my head, etc. I am literally at a loss for how to articulate what a disgusting person he is. Mike, I am a beautiful woman, and how dare you try to make me feel like anything less.

* Mike called our date at the Rustic short last week because he "had to go make a drug deal."

* The brilliant thing about Mike's worrying about my having a disease is that the first night we met we had unprotected sex. It's literally the only time I have not used a condom with someone who wasn't a boyfriend (I am on birth control) and I am furious with myself for letting it happen. Suffice it to say that, given our respective lifestyles, if we took a poll of who was more likely to have an STD, me or Mike, I'd feel pretty confident about my odds. Concert Girl might screw up the race Nader-style, tho!

* The first night I went out with Mike a woman called repeatedly and he asked me to answer the phone, which I did, saying "Mike's office." I thought it was some past fling booty-calling him. Turns out it was his ex-girlfriend of a year who he had been talking to earlier and who was calling him distraught about their conversation. Had I known this was a person who he had had an actual relationship with I would NEVER have gotten involved. So that's how Mike treats people he ostensibly used to love. He also put me on mute once so I could listen to her talking to him about how much she missed him. She thought they were having a private conversation, but Mike was in fact egging her on for my benefit to show me how "crazy" she was. If she's reading this, please please do not think Mike will ever treat you the way you deserve to be treated because he is just not a good man. He once told me you're not good at your job and just get by on your looks. You deserve so much better and he doesn't have it in him.

* Most of the times I have made plans with Mike he doesn't follow through, doesn't call to explain, and then lies about it later. I didn't invite him to my birthday party for exactly that reason, but he found out about it and made a huge deal of the fact that he wasn't invited, so I invited him, then of course he didn't show up. The next morning he texted me to ask if i wanted to get lunch. I presumed he was trying to make up for the previous night and agreed. Two hours later I hadn't heard from him and called his cell. Turns out he was out to breakfast with another woman but told me to "meet him at the Rustic in a couple hours." Romantic. (I imagine most readers are wondering why I continued to make plans with him despite this shit and I promise I'm going to address that at the end of this piece so please bear with me.) While in the shower, I missed his call. An hour and multiple calls later he told me he'd come by but since I didn't pick up my phone he had fallen asleep, in his car. So I texted him to go fuck himself, that he was the stupidest man I'd ever dated, and that I was going to the rustic by myself. He immediately called me and said he was on his way to meet me at the Inn.

* It gets creepier. As he was on his way to meet me, he called me and said he'd been wanting to talk to me for awhile about how I really feel about him because he likes me a lot. I was very guarded in my response and told him we could discuss it in person. He said he really wanted to talk now and that he couldn't believe I really liked him for x, y and z reasons. When it became clear I was not going to give a substantive response he started laughing maniacally and said "I'm just kidding."

* It still gets creepier. When I later told him that was an extremely disrespectful thing to do and asked why, he told me that the woman from breakfast was still in the car with him, that she'd asked him why so many girls like him and he'd put me on speakerphone before calling so she could listen to my response. So basically he tried to lure me into an emotional confession only for the amusement of another girl. Keep in mind this was after he'd said he had fallen asleep and missed my calls, which was clearly a lie since he was still with this other woman.

Those select tales say nothing of the thousands of little lies Mike tells as part of regular conversation. It's virtually impossible to know what to believe. He also clearly uses lying/"kidding" as a way to back out of things he wishes he hadn't disclosed. He will say something and if you don't react the way he wanted he'll start laughing and exclaim "I was just kidding!" like a child.

He also got really jealous of my other dates and clearly couldn't handle being on the other side of that treatment. Pretty hilarious.

One more X-rated Mike story just because I've been dying to share it (I don't recommend reading this paragaph if you're sensitive.) He is, like he's said in the blog, truly terrible in bed. He basically just lies there and lets the girl do all the work. I thought it was just a first time thing but the morning after we slept together, we had sex again, and I went down on him and let him finish in in my mouth. I was literally sitting there with the taste of him still in my throat when he stood up to take a shower. He had now had two orgasms to my zero, so I asked if he might orally reciprocate. He, with no hesitation or hint of sarcasm, proclaimed "I don't know you that well!" and turned on the faucet. Frankly, it's a pretty obvious metaphor for his selfishness and laziness in relationships and how his pleasure is his only concern. But anyone who can say anything that rude without flinching is clearly playing his own game.

And now a little on me.

Lest you think me a vindictive harlot, I told Mike I was going to write this and he said he didn't care.... an obvious lie but one he insisted upon. I'm not trying to get back at him for his piece today, because his life is no longer my concern and I hope I'm lucky enough never to see him again, but even when I asked him if he wanted me to take it easy on him he said it didn't matter, he didn't care, nothing matters, do whatever I want. Even in something which I do believe he values, his blog, he still couldn't stop with the deceitful, "it's your problem not mine you stupid bitch" act and ask me, human to human, to keep these things private. So I thought it was time he came to terms with the fact that the things you say become the reality you live.

That said, I completely understand that all of you reading this must not think very much of me for dating someone like this, so here is my attempt to explain why I continued to see Mike.

For starters, I regret it more than I can say. As I reread what I wrote above I am viciously angry with myself for letting someone of such low moral fiber ever treat me this way. He is hands down the most bizarre, mean, selfish and delusional person I've ever met. (Not to mention that he's not very smart, and even though my post today is hardly Hemingway I think you'll agree with me that I can write circles around this guy. Frankly, he's just not a very good writer.) His behavior is so far off the charts of what is acceptable in normal relationships it needs transalation, like "Well in Mike's world this is what that meant." But that's why people like me are drawn to him, I am embarrassed to say. We think that if we can just understand him, we can help him. We believe with true love and support he will change, and if we can be the woman to do it, that will validate us somehow. It's no accident in my mind that he was in a serious relationship with a shrink.

Mike lies so often that it doesn't occur to him that other people are honest. He claims not to trust me and doesn't know if he can believe my preposterous lip-biting story because clearly I am trying to dupe him into herpes. The paranoid paradigm in which he lives is a very lonely place.

Last night I trusted Mike to drive me home. Despite my protests, he took out a bottle of liquor and chugged it while driving. On the freeway. I found out later that he was a lot drunker than I realized when we left the concert. I don't think I will ever forgive myself for being in such a dangerous situation with someone with such little respect for others.

It really pains me to have typed all this out because listed in this format I really can't justify to myself why I kept seeing him. There were definitely substantial moments where he dropped the act and what's underneath was very appealing, but it's so obvious in reading this that he's a terrible person and no other qualities, no matter how positive, could make up for the above. By comparison, I think I try really hard to see the good in people. Because I saw something special in Mike beneath the crap I thought I could bring it out. Because I have flaws and suffer from destructive impulses I thought he deserved forgiveness and understanding. I don't feel that way any more. I have too much respect for people to ever treat them the way Mike does, whether they're a boyfriend, co-worker, family member or stranger on the street.

And I will state for the record that I don't think any of this has to do with his blog. These patterns are too ingrained to be recent occurrences. He uses the writing as an excuse to be cruel and the serial dating as an excuse not to change. Like I've said before, I think the lying and destructive behavior are an elaborate defense system Mike has erected to keep himself from getting attached to anyone where he might risk getting hurt. He is inconsistent in his versions of the truth and then aggressive in blaming the other person for requesting clarification. He's so enmeshed in his own crap I don't think he could be self-aware if he tried. He changes the subject constantly to avoid being caught in his fake stories. It's so impossible for him to take responsibility for anything he has done wrong that he lies even to himself. Frankly, I think the reflection in the mirror is just too painful.

Apparently that turned her into some sort of conservative sex symbol. PLEASE ALLAH GRANT THIS WOMAN A REALITY SHOW NOW. In fact, put them all in the middle of Gaza and take away their passports and make them try to find food and cooking oil without crossing the border back into Israel. Oh look! She's friends with Coulter. Coulter can come! And Amanda Hasselbeck 2.0 Carpenter, you too. You think we missed your astute query over at Glamocracy the other day as to whether Mike Huckabee had ever witnessed a miracle? Nah, we just didn't get to it. You know, you always forget to pray to God until the moment comes that you need him to intervene and perform a miracle. Well God, that time is NOW. Get Divello on this shit. He's got some atoning to do.

Blogging While Female [RightWingNews]
Bikini Vlog [Atlas Shrugs]

Oh no! It makes us look like swag whores."

About a year ago this shit would have had my very soul steaming out through my ears. I would have thought it was disgraceful and foul that so many women would be so gaily complicit in the efforts of the large cosmetics companies to ever-fatten the profit margins gleaned by milking the insecurity of women for all its worth. About a year ago I would hear a beauty editor friend tell me about how Herbalessences flew her to the Amazon for a week-long "organic beauty" tour or some shit and I would barely be able to restrain my puke at the perpetuation of so much pointless waste. And to think that independent bloggers — free from the advertising relationships and product pages to fill that prevent magazines from actually explaining what a fucking scam the whole thing is — can be bought with a few boxes of free anti-aging cream? That "retails" for $90, but cost $3 to fucking make?? Who don't write negative reviews under the reasoning that "we don't want to hurt a company"???

Lady, does a "company" bleed?

But yeah, seriously, I don't give a shit anymore. I mean, there's a war in Iraq and a war in Kenya and date rape is still de facto legal and Paris Hilton is still famous and soon enough there will be a huge recession and it will wipe all this bullshit away and we will all stop lining the pockets of LVMH and Dr. Motherfucking Pericone with our ill-advised purchases of $65 tinted moisturizer and $30 lipgloss.

Beauty and Blogs Come Of Age: Swag, Please! [NY Times]

While...simultaneously...trying to get hits for their blogs? Okay, something, whatever. Here's what we know about Steve Almond: he has spent a lot of time bemoaning the merciless, nuance-less unrelenting meanness of the blogosphere. He has spent a lot of time doing that because his editor alerted him to the fact that Gawker had posted a bizarre collection of emails he had written to Oprah. He wrote a book called Candyfreak. Full disclosure: I read Candyfreak because my old literary agent suggested I model my own book proposal on that book. Candyfreak was about candy. My book proposal was about capitalism. It's all the same shit, right? Packaging and cool fonts and satisfactillicious content? Cause we're all just tryin to get the hits? But wait, it can't just be about the hits? I mean, as you yourself wrote, Steve:

By appealing to our most childish impulses — and with the cowardly consent of the left — the right-wing of this country has managed to Gawk the political discourse. This is why matters of policy go uncovered, while gossip and gaffes and cleavage and haircuts and (most of all) emotionally convincing ad hominems determine the outcome of elections. If this country ever hopes to rouse itself from the moral torpor marked by the Bush years, we are going to have to end our addiction to Gawking, and face up to the common crises of state.

Boring Squared [Babble]
Why I'm No Longer A Fan Of Baby Daddy [Babble]

Sadly, the night just confirmed what I have known for some time: I have the superior life. That Robby from Good for the Jews - what a Jonah! - is the kind of man you should be dating: funny, creative, Jewish and obviously very smart. He graduated from a REAL Ivy League college - not the hippy commune you attended.

N. According to Elaine, Jonah is the type of guy Haley (and any other smart, attractive woman with a pathetic dating track record) SHOULD be with. He is college educated, at least 5' 10", Jewish, and creative. He is a highly successful architect or advertising exec, yet enjoys spending his free time working with at-risk youth, painting and playing his guitar. Jonah has the talent to be in a sought-after, commercially successful band, but he believes there's more to life. Jonah has a wonderful family. His mother stayed home to raise her children but has lots of hobbies including water color painting, interpretive dancing and philanthropy. Jonah's dad is a retired corporate lawyer who now does pro-bono work three days a week. Jonah's parents have beautiful vacation homes in Santa Barbara and Vail. Jonah's younger brother is a documentary film maker and an all-around mensch. Usage: "Enough with the Jakes* and Philips*, Haley, your Jonah is out there."

Gains among the Gennifer Flowers set aren't surprising—Hillary has doggedly pitched programs (which are obviously unappealing to a conservative like me) such as universal healthcare, universal paid leave, and even $5,000 "baby bonds" to rally the low-income, uneducated women she enjoys strong support from. Her campaign even has a special name for them: "women with needs." Labels like this make me think Hillary is the woman in "need". As in, she "needs" taxpayer money to give to the women she "needs" votes from.

Annnnnyhow, obviously this bitch is a total cunt, and please don't be offended by that word, not that I care. I would say I don't understand how they convince women to become Republicans, but that would be a lie because I totally do; the plain fact is that some women are totally evil and evil people like becoming Republicans, and I would say that explains this one. I don't, for the record, think that explains Coulter, who is somehow fun for me. No, this chick is just your run of the mill racist pretty Satanist Christian airhead born without the empathy gene, I'm pretty sure, though that could be fun for me too. Whatever! I'll think about it on Monday. TChristIF!

Glamocracy

Did she get the shoes for free? Is McCain's campaign so moribund she's vying for a job in the fashion closet at Cosmo? One of the things we always sorta liked about John McCain back before Karl Rove ruined his life was his insistence on drilling the terms "campaign finance" and "beholden to special interests" over and over and over again until at least the least dumb five percent of the country actually focused for a second on the notion that when an institution intended to serve people is reliant on a few big companies for a huge portion of its funding everything gets corrupted, and while this is unavoidable, it is also good to remember that you would probably prefer your legislature ran itself more like The Economist and less like Teen Vogue, if you know what I mean, and if you don't, that's okay because I am probably not really making sense anyway, BUT, anyone who lists as her favorite hobby as "reading the latest fashion magazines" on a bio next to a picture of herself wearing that hat makes even less sense so whatevs.

Storked! [Glamour]
Life With Cancer [Glamour]

The lives of the internet's vagina monobloggers are nothing if not hectic and emotionally-charged — sometimes too hectic for any of us to keep track of. That's why Intern Cheryl does it for us. In this edition of Vagina Monoblogs, Glamour's Storked! blogger Christine Coppa learns about the dangers of being pregnant in a pool, and Edgy English Teacher learns the dangers of allowing "The one that got away" to illustrate why, exactly, she got away in the comments section of one's own dating blog...

Storked!
Just 22 days left until the baby is surgically removed from her uterus, and "prego" Christine Coppa seems like she has nothing left to do. We envision her Pre-C-section checklist to closely resemble something like:

• Name unborn child Mia. Find out it is a boy. Change name to J.D.
• Buy condoms. Not for self, but for friends so they don't get knocked up.
• Move out of Poppa Coppa's house against his will into new apartment. Outfit said apartment with unhealthy plethora of baby accoutrements such as diapers, rubber duckies, clothes, food, etc.
• Do unborn baby's laundry.
• Eat chocolate shit out of diapers.
• Betroth J.D. to friend Kerry's daughter, although J.D.'s "seed gyrating to a strobe light's flicker" of a heart may be more interested in Maddox Jolie-Pitt.
• Enlighten the general public with the fact that when your "water breaks" in a swimming pool, it may be commonly mistaken for your everyday pool fart.

  We really could have done without all of the above, Christine. But, if you could just stop being cagey and kindly fill us in on the whereabouts of J.D.'s biological father and why he ran, fleeing into the hills without any form of support, that would be great.

  Man Needs Date!
  Mike, a.k.a. 'Edgy English Teacher' (or 'EET' for those with a penchant for acronyms) is the new semi-permanent guest blogger for Glamour's Alyssacentric (Alyssa's face still watchfully hovers over the page that bears her name), who is presumably trying to nail his very own Glamour gig. Well, he's nailing something, that's for sure. Since commencing public idiocy over a month ago, EET has fucked his ex, posted a picture of her bra gently draped across his computer monitor, collected the digits of numerous uninteresting women, and started dating his coworker 'Pretty History Teacher' (PHT!). PHT seems like she should know better, but "she has a heart of gold," so that must mean she doesn't? Despite Ivy League lineage (just like Alyssa!) and being told about EET's blog, she is still dating him. Albeit, she has left him stranded on first base, which may have something to do with his inability to make decisions, or the fact that he may be a cheating asshole: About two weeks ago, EET posted a large picture and 274 word homage to Nancy "the one that got away" on her birthday. He also lets a former-fuckbuddy-turned-friend, Anna, guest blog. She talks about how her new boyfriend doesn't like EET because the only time he met him was when he came over "soused, after a day of snowboarding, and then proceeded to put on his red mittens and play Beyonce's "Irresistible" over and over as he danced by himself like a crazy man in my living room." To which the other ex, Nancy, comments, "Thanks Mike for the tribute on my b-day... very kind indeed. As for Anna, I remember him telling me all about you. You shared a classroom with Mike during the latter part of our 2-year "committed" relationship. In fact, Mike used to tell me how much he appreciated all the great relationship advice you gave him. I believe that's the only time you shared a classroom right? Well... I guess you gave him a little bit more than advice. Well, thanks guys... who needs commitment anyway?"

What was up with yesterday's post likening seeing her unborn on a sonogram to "running into an old friend."

His teeny heart is pumping and ticking away (I saw all four chambers. They make up a little cross).

Storked!
[Glamour]

Cute that you went w/ you mom. BUT I'd never date a guy who got pedis. That's what I'd call a major ITO (Instant Turn Off). But love you anyways.

Yeah, sorry. Even the cat was all "put that shit away!"

Be A Man [Glamour]

Jennifer looks great, Vince, not so much. Am I destined to look like Vince while she gets off looking like Jen?

My current g.f. hates my button pushing, like when I listen to Howard Stern around her. And she can't stand my ooh's and aah's when Jessica Simpson or some other random hottie flashes onto my TV screen... Last night she recited some existential psychobabble and told me she would ignore those remarks from now on... I'd better buy her some Prada this weekend or no nookie.

Where's My Happy Ending? [Glamour]
Earlier: Dear Alyssa, You Could Stand To Learn A Thing Or Two About The 'Edgy' English Language

At first my boyfriend of three months was into the idea. And now, for reasons that I would love to get into but can't legally (yes, legally—ladies, use a condom), he is officially and permanently off of Team Baby.

But we bet the shower will be amazing!

Storked! [Glamour]

How much is the butt love worth to Dan? Maybe it's worth some custom draperies for our new house or an upgrade to Hunter Douglas blinds instead of the cheap plastic blinds from Walmart.

Oh Jane, as fellow proponents of the big O, we'd just like to say: Please, please don't stop.

Hot & Bothered [Redbook]

[Cosmopolitan, July 2007, page 128]

Sarah had some chips and a giant margarita at the cheesy Mexican place at which we met (her choice, but she was apologetic!) which was enough to give her some calories, but not enough to make her puke. Anyway again! Abstaining from FOOD isn't this girl's disorder! Sex is, or rather, how she still hasn't had it. Sarah is not only pretty - violent acne kept her away from men for her first 22 years, but her skin is utterly flawless now, little whore! — she's funny. Funny enough that she does stand-up comedy, which is how this whole Jane thing originated, as a stand-up routine that sort of, needless to say, spiraled out of control.

Because I was looking for a long-term relationship with Sarah and not a one-night stand (translation: I = a pussy) I did not ask certain things of Sarah that were on my mind, like where she'd been sexually on the 1st-to home-base scale, or if she'd allow us to have her hymen tested [Good god. -Ed.], or if she was one of those virgins who was paranoid enough to have been tested for HIV the first time she felt a penis. She offered that she enjoys porn, but I didn't watch any with her.

At this point, I must say, I was pretty drunk, but I do remember that over the course of the evening Sarah kept reminding me of all the facts one could glean about oneself if one were so resourceful as to type a name into Google. This is not the fault of either of us: I have an almost preposterously Google-able name. If I dated curious, ambitious, thin types like Sarah DiMuro, instead of the fleshy, slacker-drunks I so clearly prefer, I might be forced to have actual conversations with people, about things I have written, which would be tolerable if my drunk mind had any concept what its sober counterpart was up to during the day. (I wrote a story about Dave Chappelle? Really? I knew I liked that guy..)

About then I probably forgot what I was doing there. I knew we were not there to have sex, since, well, she's a virgin and females aren't my type anyway. I remembered she lives in a women's residence from which men who are not family members are totally banned. "I call it the convent," she said. "I know people whose boyfriends have worn wigs, who've climbed in through fire escapes..." It was entertaining, stories of the convent, and her neighbor the snitch, and yet: why does she still live there? She lives there, she said, because it is easy, and in the West Village, and they prepare two meals a day for all residents, which prompted my mind to again wander toward the less-fascinating mystery of why Sarah DiMuro was so thin.

About three quarters of the way through the conversation I received a text message from a newly-unemployed guy I sleep with sometimes and found myself telling Sarah about it.

Her: "Do you always know at first when you're going to, you know, like someone?"

Me: "Well I knew pretty instantly we were probably going to have sex at some point."

Her: "See, I don't always know right at first if I'm going to.."

Me: "Not have sex with them! Haha."

Her: "For awhile I was really into Asian guys. I mean, that was, like, my thing. I don't know why."

I babbled about something. It's not a fun thing to visualize a 30-year-old virgin messing around with someone, even if she's a perfectly able messer-arounder, but nevertheless I visualized her with Harold from Harold and Kumar, since I figured that was probably who she was talking about, and it made sense, having been a big nerd all her life; maybe she fantasized about a Korean lab partner back in high school; huh. Babble babble babble I went, explaining how she should explore her thing, and that even I didn't like to have sex RIGHT away, that I thought it was better, as a rule, to get in at least one good non-physcial drinking session to make sure that you were actually compatible with someone's personality...

Her: "See, I find that usually when I get really physical right away, it's because I've been drinking. So I try not to drink so much."

At which point I was stumped. I mean, what do you say? If I'd had a non-drunk control group from which I was working in the years I was out trying to lose my virginity, I'd probably still be a virgin myself. On the other hand, she's dating someone steadily now (whom she calls "Cute Blond"), and he probably doesn't want to do it yet. He wants everything to be comfortable, I'd assume; except that too comfortable isn't going to get anyone in the mood either, especially without alcohol. Sigh. Also: Cute Blond isn't Asian. So she was not only trying to lose it sober, she was trying to go off-type. Tough.

"I just need to take time off from the question," she concluded. Which was true: if a year's worth of pressure hadn't gotten her laid, maybe pressure wasn't, for once, the answer. She had signed up to do the blog — for no money, in fact! Though they have offered to pay $12 a post — as a sort of career move, a builder of buzz for Brand Sarah Dimuro, and it had wound up brushing up against her identity to a degree that was uncomfortable, even to a pretty conscientious careerist. I wanted to tell her to move out of this town, and take a job waiting tables somewhere, to smoke a lot of pot. She had gone about her twenties like the high school dork that she was, the excruciatingly-shy introvert who confronts her deepest fears by performing stand-up in front of heckling strangers. It was pretty awesome of her. But sex is different. It's like, life, or something.

"My goal is, at some point, to host a show," she told me. I nodded because I believe she could be really great at that, though I'd want her to stop being a virgin first, and maybe put on some weight.

She continued: "I just know I'd be good at it. What's your big goal, with all of this? Jezebel? Seriously. I know you have goals."

"Oh God," I said.

"I don't think I look beyond the next post."

[OK ANNA, ONTO THE NEXT POST!!]

Their responses to Alyssa's question, "Why can't I find love when I am clearly so adorable as evidenced by the 397 pictures of myself I have posted on the Glamour website", were mostly pretty boring since as Neel pointed out, they don't actually read Alyssa's blog. But when Alyssa took umbrage-lite at Jake wannabe Adam Stein's response, Adam dug up his rough draft and found that his answer had been planted with a SUBLIMINAL (figuratively) MESSAGE by... well, he could only suspect "Glamour Editorial Sprites"!

I don't think I was hard on you at all, unless you're referring to this: "Seems to me you've been looking in all the wrong places. Celeb-infested galas, crowded book signings and publicist-heavy cocktail parties tend to be crowded with the types you know you should avoid." In which case I should tell you...I didn't write that. Sometimes I compose a draft of a blog, and then it comes out posted with mysterious additions. Glamour Editorial Sprites, no doubt, making mischief.

Mischief! That's one word! Sprites. Yet another! But wait! We think we're stating to make out a hidden message within the hidden message...

This...vapid ho gets... three thousand dollars a month....for this shit????

• The Glamour online team has laid down the law. Ostensibly a dating blogger, Alyssa has not actually blogged about a date since agreeing to see her no-name-ex, a guy who didn't want to be blogged about. To compensate, she's focused on issues like how she stays thin and other really, really boring shit we can't remember, and posted lots of photographic evidence of her giant forehead, all of which rendered Miss Lyss virtually unreadable. Furthermore, there is reason to believe Glamour is laying down the law with all their bloggers, given the curious timing of both "Suze on Style" blogger Suze Yalof Schwartz and "Slaves To Fashion" blogger Ashley Baker's joining of some fledgling social-networking site called MySpace (interestingly, only Suze has figured out how to register her own permanent, personalized MySpace URL). Perhaps Conde Nast forced Alyssa to choose between love and her unquenchable thirst for self-promotion?

• "Edgy English Teacher" edged his way back into her... ew.
  If there's been one anchor in Alyssa's online life, it's been a mysterious, sometime guest blogger she's dubbed "Edgy English Teacher," a moniker we assume she's given him because he's an English teacher given to sublime utterances like "better buy her some Prada this weekend or no nookie."

• Alyssa's dad walked in on her and her no-nickname-ex having sex.
  Alyssa lives with her parents, dontcha know? And dad was weirded out. Or aroused! And Alyssa was weirded out by that. Or aroused! Imagine the possibilities! No, seriously, don't.

  Alyssacentric: Stormy Everything [Glamour]

Her PR firm made her quit.

Right, because Melanie Boyer is a publicist, and Alyssa Shelasky, as she never lets us forget, is one of those RELENTLESS PURSUERS OF THE TRUTH (sometimes we call them "journalists"). After all, as she reminded us Monday:

"If I can find Brad Pitt in Anguilla," she said Monday, "I can find my hoodie!"

After the jump, five more reasons to hate Alyssa and mourn the loss of Mel B.

1. Both have a healthy perspective on their economic relevance in a post-Web 2.0 reality:
Melanie:

At this point, a girl can't shit around with amateurs. The threat of global warming and global conflict is all up in our grill. A girl's got to think about that shit. War of the Worlds could happen, and then where the hell would I be? No one's going to be banging down the door for a writer when bloody veins and electrical squid are fucking shit up all over the place.

Alyssa:

In my heart of hearts I want to move to Malibu for the summer...Then I'd move home in the Fall, and you guessed it, go with the flow. But here's the second part of that convo: Los Angeles is NOT reality. I go there to escape. I go there to beautify. There's other possibilities, too. I might have a chance to work in the Hamptons. I know, it's a little uptight, but beautiful and logical.

2. Both occasionally stumble precisely upon those feelings of loneliness shared by every single twenty-something serial dater:
Melanie:

Just for a minute, the phone calls had me tricked. Because the only reason you would call was if you wanted to talk to me. Right? I'm a bit embarrassed at how long it took me to figure it out. Silly girl. You call me when you're on your way to the metro. You call me when you're on the bus, or on your way home. You call me when you're on your way to somewhere else.
I wish I could say this feeling of worthlessness is all new. But I recognize it. I'm slipping into it like my blue cotton bed sheets after a couple of glasses of merlot and Late Night with Conan O'Brien.

Alyssa:

Remember "Mystery Man" in LA? Now that he's old news, I might as well tell you, he made me feel like the biggest waste of space. I wasn't interesting enough, exotic enough, jet-setter enough — bc he was from some cobblestone European city or whatever.

3. Sometimes the people who read the blog are even more entertaining than the bloggers themselves!
Melanie:

All you need to do is find some guy who is in to erotic asphyxiation. you (and f_in_the_a) can gather up all that hair, make a rope, and strangle the poor dude with it. See? It's a perfect solution! You get to strangle someone, all the hair is gone, you've just engaged a sex act that you can write about. And I'm even pretty sure that the act of gathering and constructing your hairniquet will provide many of the same physiological benefits of sit-ups...

Alyssa:

Of course I would LOVE to have Jessica Alba's body. WOW. Maybe I did for a while in HS... then I went off the dexatrim and got over the ex dumping me. Food was reintroduced...and I went to college. Oh well. I will have to say that I am pretty satisfied with my body. Of couse, I have complaints; what IS that pouch that won't go away no matter how skinny the rest of me gets (I call it baby leftovers- gross but true), I have always had thick legs and plenty of booty to go around. But then I think- I have awesome olive skin and tan like no other, long natural silky brown hair, beautiful green eyes and tons of personality to boot.

Don't thank us, but we had to wade through about 300,000 words of this shit.

Alyssacentric [Glamour]
About Last Night [Washington City Paper]

And that's the thing about those self-obsessed, bad-at-listening serial-dater types: if there is one thing you can count on them giving, it is too much information. We have friends like that. (Well, friends like that with better taste in music.)

But around Valentine's Day, Alyssa stopped sharing her trysts with us. Because, she later revealed, she was in a relationship with someone who didn't want to be written about. At first, we thought, those Conde Nast lawyers are pretty silly if they gave Alyssa a contract allowing her to write about, well, her inner life! (Which is to say, her lack thereof!) But today, she reveals something troubling. Starting "Alyssacentric" was part of a larger life mission.

The decision to do the blog was connected to a bigger career goal. I needed to evolve as a lifestyle writer, and expand my portfolio.

So Alyssa has her own lawyers? And her blog is part of some career ladder she's climbing? Does one really ascend the professional ranks by flitting around the Western continents in designer dresses giving coy nicknames like "Sexy Euro" to the dudes she fucks? Don't answer that!