Stephanie Georgopulos

You might actually have nothing to wear: half of your clothes belong to another season and the other half is fit for like, a job interview at Hooter’s or eloping with an Egyptian prince or you, twenty pounds ago.

Of course, cats have just one life. This became apparent when Baldwin III, former Count of Ypres, made a game of flinging cats to their death from the top of a tower, and again when cats were persecuted alongside alleged witches during the Dark Ages, and yet again when the American Veterinary Medical Association published a study stating that a cat’s terminal velocity is 53 MPH.

His eleventh studio album, Write Me Back, is due next month (and I mean that’s fantastic because this homage was happening either way; at least now it can happen under the guise of relevance). Now’s a good a time as any to brush up on the eclectic, puzzling, oft-straight-up-questionable catalog of Kelz.

Now, I know one could argue that loving a dead celebrity isn’t like, legitimate. Sharing breath and touching hair and speaking in shapes and colors and all the things we do when we’re so in love! are notably absent in a one-sided, otherworldly relationship.

If you’re interning or building up your portfolio or telling your friends you’re freelancing because it sounds better than “I’m getting screwed because I haven’t figured out how to ask for money yet,” fine — but don’t give your “client” the impression that freelancers do not require payment.

But Mrs. Brick’s grievances extend beyond being asked if it hurt when she fell from heaven on the regular. What’s really grinding her gears is that all the womenfolk in her life are Grade A Certified Haters — how else might we explain the fact that she’s never been asked to be a bridesmaid in any one of her friends’ weddings?

For one thing, they’ve already seen hundreds of patrons through similar dilemmas and so have a unique perspective on philosophical questions like, what went wrong? and how do I retrieve my very expensive vacuum cleaner from his apartment?

At this point, my friends should despise you — but don’t worry! This is all part of the job. If my roommate neglects to invite you to her birthday party or the friend request you sent to my little sister has sat idle for weeks on end, it just means you’re excelling at your position, which is all I could ask for, really.

Wouldn’t it be totally annoying to have a conversation with someone who would rather bellyache for hours than devote the same amount of time to addressing these issues? Yeah. That annoying person is you, gurl. Not a good look.

Imploring parents to STFU or passively defriending someone because their pregnancy nudes caused you to literally vomit in your own mouth is nothing new, but I’m of the opinion that we’re excessively hard on parents when it comes to Facebook conduct.

It’s true that a predictable combination of brown hair and brown eyes plagued the Sakatawas, though Steve never had much trouble circumventing this mundanity. No, Steve had done quite well for himself all things considered, and life would continue to march along in his favor for some time before tragedy took its toll.

When you’re surrounded by people who are smarter than you, and oft times better looking — not to mention younger — and one of these smart, hot, young people tells you with a hint of sensitivity that you will probably have to pay them $700 or something like that, under fluorescent lighting no less, you are maybe in the most uncomfortable place in the world.

I’m still in the dark, so to speak, as to why I need to waste precious energy getting out of bed to turn my light on and off when the technology exists to get the job done in an efficient — and festive — manner.

I know it’s totally uncool to listen to jam bands past your 17th birthday or once the lease on your Jeep Wrangler expires — whichever comes first — but “Crush” is still a really sexy song.

And so it begins, this chase for acknowledgement that starts on a Saturday night at a blues concert and ends in his bed, ends with you wide-eyed at 3 AM thinking, “Why doesn’t he see it, yet?” as he snores next to you in the blackened room.

Well let me tell you something. Just because you can sometimes hear my teeth mashing together from across the room, even when you’re wearing headphones — not the crappy drug store headphones but like, the expensive, douchey headphones they sell overseas for ~190 Euros — that doesn’t mean I have anger issues.

It was the Ides of March, ten years ago today. I don’t remember anything about school that day — don’t remember what I wore or what I ate or anything other than my English teacher repeatedly telling us to beware the Ides of March in that theatrical manner that embarrasses teenagers, makes them wish they weren’t alive.

Perks of this position are getting to wear a headset, learning to strategically punch a timecard in order to maximize earnings, saying the word ‘hydro-massage,’ and therapeutic payoff via hanging up the phone on vitriolic strangers without fear of repercussion.