Socially awkward monsters.

The social politics of being an Internet personality are exhausting. The strategy involved in deciding when to like a status, when to favourite (or, when you’re feeling especially Internet relationship savvy, retweet) someone’s tweet, or when to reblog a gif set runs so deep that I’m not sure anyone can really explain it anymore.  I once went into a sharp spiral of depression started by losing Twitter followers, which is completely absurd but defensible only because that number is essentially Internet currency, where having more or fewer followers than someone places you in a ridiculous house of cards power hierarchy that means nothing yet somehow means everything. It turns any gathering of Internet types into a poorly veiled Mean Girls rendition. You’ve only got 1000 followers? You can’t sit with us.

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Holly and me.

“Reckless abandon” has never been a gear I could put myself in. The closest I came was when I was 21 and went through a Skins-fueled phase where I decided I would go all Jim Carrey in Yes Man and never say no to any experience I was offered. The only results were constant exhaustion, a bank account that bled money, and a single week in February when I hit rock bottom and took up smoking cigarettes to properly display my twentysomething angst. But even those few months were calculated; I made a conscious choice to be young and free, it didn’t come naturally.

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I spent New Years doing puzzles with my parents and it was actually totally fine.

For twentysomethings, New Years is hyped as the night of all nights, the evening when you’re supposed to be wild and free and make mistakes and get too drunk and make out with a stranger at midnight (or earlier, or both, or multiple strangers) and generally celebrate the fact that by golly you’re still young.

I spent last night doing puzzles with my parents. And you know what? It was pretty fucking awesome.

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We need to talk about Selena Gomez's 'Birthday'.

The Selena Gomez album leaked the other day. Naturally, as a Selenator (is that what we’re called?) I was ecstatic to hear what the rest of the album had to offer after the brilliance of early releases ‘Come And Get It’ and 'Slow Down’.

This is the first song I heard after hitting play:

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The video's a little off but 'We Can't Stop' is still amazing so calm down, everyone.

Let’s make one thing clear before we discuss anything else: ‘We Can’t Stop’, Miley Cyrus’ latest single, is her best work since 'Party In The USA’ and one of the most exciting pop songs of the year, in that it sounded singular on its release and still feels like a fresh creative turn weeks later. The lyrics are pandering, sure, but sonically there’s little like it on the radio right now.

The video is a little bizarre.

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What Edgar Renteria meant to me.

The memory of the clip above is engrained in my memory so strongly that I feel like it must’ve happened last year or the year before that at most, not 1997. I was eight years old then, begging my parents to let me stay up well past my bedtime to finish Game 7 of the World Series where my beloved Florida Marlins—I was a bandwagon fan, let’s be honest—had taken the heavily favoured Cleveland Indians into extra innings. I remember feeling so grown up, awake at 11 p.m. to watch a game that I had no reason to care about as much as I did. I sat glued to the TV, palms sweaty as the Marlins loaded the bases and Edgar Renteria, my new hero, lined a single over Charles Nagy’s glove to give Florida its first ever championship.

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"Guilty" pleasures.

Earlier today, Jezebel alerted me to this story. In a nutshell: Lena Dunham loves Taylor Swift’s music, and Lena Dunham fans aren’t too happy about that. The reason for their ire is obvious; Dunham is supposed to be the picture of Brooklyn cool, and despite Taylor’s ubiquity, announcing that you identify with Swizzle’s tales of heartbreak and…well, heartbreak, is the social equivalent of saying that From Justin To Kelly is your Citizen Kane. Being an open Swift fan means society labels you a little uncool, at best, and completely tasteless, at worst.

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