The Bring It On-a-thon

I don’t know whether to be proud or mortified, but on Monday I overcame exhaustion, emotional outbursts and all good taste. On Monday I looked filmic death square in the eye, and you know what I said? I said ‘Bring It On’.

It all started with an inspired Christmas gift from Sammy. Knowing my passion for Bring It On, and following a conversation about that film’s various straight-to-dvd sequels, Sammy gave me the box set edition of the ultimate cheerleading franchise. Ultimate… and only cheerleading franchise. What came next, several wine bottles later, was a vow I couldn’t take back. A vow that would take me to the edge of sanity. I swore to sit through all 458 minutes of pom-pom waving wonder in one go. That’s a 7 hour and 38 minute cheer-tacular.

At the time, as many as 4 friends claimed they too would give it a go. Why that number dwindled to 2 when we set a date with destiny remains a mystery. Their loss.

Sammy, Fi and I settled in to Bring It On-a-thon 2010 with pom-poms in our hearts and spirit fingers at the ready. What followed almost broke me. Will I ever cheer again? It’s difficult to say.

3:30pm – Bring It On
The 3 of us were buoyed with optimism, because this is a truly awesome movie. It also appears to have been a career high for Jesse Bradford and Gabrielle Union (where are you now?). It’s also the only time I’ve ever seen bad breath used as a plot point, to be followed by a lengthy teeth brushing scene. Is this a special extended teeth brushing scene for the DVD? I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much focus on dental hygiene in a film. Oh Sparky Polastri, you had me at “Report that compliment to your ass before it forms it’s own web site.”
Verdict = brilliant as ever

4:25pm – Bring It On: All or Nothing
This was a point where we made a controversial decision. We skipped the first sequel, Bring It On Again (the ill-fated attempt to take the cheerleading plot to college, when we all know it belongs in high school), in an attempt to make sure we get through to 5 (Fi was desperate to see Christina Milian). There was another dream sequence opening, this one involving a fart. Fart comedy is never a good sign. Hayden Panettiere, could this be your career highlight? Solange Knowles-Smith, this is definitely your career highlight (god it must suck to be Beyonce’s sister). Hayden is a rich girl who has to move to a poor school after her dad loses his job. As we all know, poor schools have never seen white people before, so Hayden’s arrival is utterly shocking. Hayden and Solange must work together to win cheer glory, and computers for their poor school. If I never have to see Hayden krump again, it will be too long. Krumping is not a sport for white people. Also, who convinced Rihanna to appear?
Verdict = not disastrous, but certainly ridiculous

6:55pm – Bring It On: In It To Win It
Here lies the movie that nearly killed me. It was my Alamo. I have never sat through an entire movie that was this bad before. It’s what it feels like when doves cry – unnatural, unholy and indescribable. I wanted to eat my own hand in horror. You will not recognize anyone in this, because their careers promptly died after this was made. IITWI is a loose adaptation of West Side Story, with the two rival teams called the Sharks and the Jets. When injuries force them to merge teams to compete in a competition that makes no sense, they name themselves The Shets. No joke. For the nadir/highlight, tune in at 39 minutes and 40 seconds to see a ‘cheer-rumble’ in a darkened street where they click, and swing around lamp-posts. Then take the DVD out of the machine and burn it.
Verdict = Don’t, just don’t

8:45pm – Bring It On: Fight to the Finish
By this point Sammy, a broken woman after IITWI, had to throw in the towel. I don’t blame her. Fi reveled in the glory that was her Christina Milian fetish, then quit halfway through. The film itself was such a vast step up from the horrors of the previous movie that it’s racial stereotyping and lack of logic barely registered. Plus it’s actually occasionally funny. Christina is the Cuban-American who moves from a poor school to a rich one after her mum marries up (for love, of course). Once there she gives the school’s incompetent cheer squad an ethnic cheer-makeover. This is the film where it becomes clear it’s not really about cheering anymore, it’s about a miss-labeled dance troupe.
Verdict = really stupid, but sporadically amusing

10:05pm – Bring It On Again
I decided that to claim an official Bring It On-a-thon I needed to do it properly. I couldn’t risk ever having to see IITWI again. So alone and fading, I pulled out the disc for the very first sequel, and completed the final leg of my cheer-athlon. It was as forgettable as I had suspected. A bunch of cheer rejects form a 2nd college cheerleading group with the catch-less name the ‘Renegades’. The highlight is Bree Turner’s uber bitch, who is a Judy Greer in waiting (Judy Greer is Hollywood’s go-to gal for snarky romcom best friend. If Judy Greer is your best friend, it’s a reliable sign your about to meet your soul mate).
Verdict = meh

Bloated with triumph and junk food I stumbled to bed. I vowed to do something cerebral the next day to try and even out the mental black hole I had just formed in my brain. I didn’t, but it was totally the thought that counts. I can guarantee I will never attempt a Bring It On-a-thon again. I am, however, already looking for volunteers for Step Up-a-thon 2011. Any takers?


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The Greatest Show On Earth

Over the weekend I hit one of my annual cultural landmarks by attending the Hawkesbury Show. Some people like their shows fancy – with robots that breathe fire – but I prefer the ones with special competition categories for ‘Best Other Vegetable’. Some people want an inner city show, but I like the opportunity to wander about counting rats tails (they’re back, did you know? Did they ever leave?) and discovering just how early people like to have kids these days (mid teens).

The Hawkesbury Show is the event to attend if the size and cost of the Royal Easter Show makes you want to hurl. These days the Royal Easter Show is only good if you own a horse, want to own a horse, are a child (clutching a $90 showbag) or a teen (without a newborn) looking for another unsupervised patch of ground to linger on while rebelling against old people who think washing your hair should be a regular occurrence. Those teens have since moved on to start riots over Justin Bieber (Justin Bieber for crying out loud. Who are you, but a tragic window into a future Celebrity Rehab episode another 10 years in the making?).

At the Hawkesbury Show you can peruse the Craft shed (it really is just a giant shed) to see who won in categories such as ‘Best Root Vegetable’, ‘Best Home Grown Garden Vegetable’ and ‘3 Largest Apples’. In case you’re wondering, taking out top honours in ‘3 Largest Apples’ is literally a case of owning the 3 largest apples (conversely I’m still unclear on how they chose ‘Best Onion’). There’s a category where children (and their bored mothers) compete to create the best sculpture out of fruit and toothpicks (I maintain that the creator of the second placed ‘Banana Montana’ was robbed). I took in the various artistic endeavours of several age groups, and was relieved to find that someone had taken the time to do a detailed portrait of Saint Angelina Jolie.

There was also a shed filled with ridiculously cute baby animals. Livinia negotiated with me to see if we could still be friends if she stole a piglet. We could not.

Another treat, for those of you who love carnie spotting, is that the Hawkesbury Show doesn’t disappoint there either. Short carnies, tall carnies, squat carnies, carnies with hats, carnies with eye patches – the gang’s all there. Fun fact! Did you know carnies have a special, traveling carnie school? The education revolution comes with a Ferris wheel of enlightenment, a rotating tea cup of grammar and a fairy floss high similar to the joy of learning.

Let’s not forget a shout out to the various dance troupes who took to the stage with a burning desire to be in a music video, a dream of chemically straightened hair and a pocket full of hip thrusts. Because I am not a middle aged man I could take in their performances without receiving any suspicious glares, and recall my former leotard laden glory. There was the classic ‘star’ always prominently placed, whose claim to fame was her ability to raise one leg all the way up to her head, the rhythm-less but spirit-filled team player who spent her time in a far back corner of the stage, and the token male. Those were the days. I don’t remember mastering nearly so many stripper moves, but the times they are a-changing.

The only thing wrong with the Hawkesbury Show is that it runs a mere 3 days. Fortunately that won’t truly upset me until I run out of sour licorice, and that’s got to be at least 2 weeks off.


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She’s Got The Brower

When she told me she was leaving me I almost cried. The fact that she was ripping hair out of my face was probably a contributing factor. All the same, it was a shocking revelation to discover that the woman who managed to keep my eyebrows from uniting (like the soul mates they are) had quit and was moving to a new city.

There are people in this world who get to see us vulnerable, there are those who get to make us vulnerable and there are the ones who we pay for the privilege. This last option is a trait shared by a select few – therapists, gynecologists, and the noble brow technician are among them. But my Brow Girl is deserting her post. Anyone with any sort of troubled brow past knows how hard it can be to learn to trust again.

My rocky brow history began at boarding school, that haven of teen beautician disasters. It’s the kind of place where piercing ones ears merely involves a needle and an apple, and haircuts and dye jobs can leave a girl looking like a pink gerbil who’s just discovered the true meaning of static electricity. Despite these clear warning signs, I continued to allow fellow students near my face with a pair of tweezers. To this day, my mother still marvels that I came out on the other end with any eyebrows at all.

After embarking on a re-growth program, I then had an unfortunate run-in with a trainee beautician. You know any brow job is going badly when after half an hour the trainee has to request emergency assistance. Did you know a brow job is a team event? It’s rather disconcerting when two, then three women hover over you, and one brushes one of your eyebrows while uttering in a hushed tone, “If we comb it this way it’s not as bad.” The same trainee later burnt my sister with hot wax.

Then there were the wilderness years – spent being a shift worker, then backpacking. In both instances I sipped sangria, saw few familiar faces and avoided mirrors at all costs. It was a haggard time, and the closest I came to a uni-brow.

I finally re-surfaced, mature and seeking a strong, dependable brow relationship. It took time. One woman, upon my second visit, critiqued whoever had done my eyebrows last. When I pointed out it was her, we reached an unspoken agreement that I would not be returning to her establishment. But when you live with a man whose eyebrows are as finely crafted as Mick’s, giving up the search is not an option.

Brow Girl hasn’t been all smooth-sailing either. We’ve had to over-look each other’s flaws. She’s had to overcome a lot – the fact that my eyebrows have the hardiness of weeds that refuse to be budged, my pain threshold being lower than that of a whinging 4 year old, and my clear disdain for her taste in films. I’ve had to overcome the fact that Brow Girl is the purveyor of the most inane conversational stylings in the known world. This meant biting my tongue when she expressed shock and sorrow at my lack of Valentine’s Day plans, giving up on puns and double entendres all together (explaining my own jokes got tiresome), breathing deeply as she described why Clash of the Titans is her new favourite film and feigning interest when she told me where to find the crazy antics of yet another precocious baby on youtube.

When I was in that room, she didn’t just have the power, she had Brow Power. The Brower. I was at her mercy. But now she’s gone, and all she left me with was one last session of painstaking plucking and horribly stilted banter, and a final, evenly balanced, perfectly expressive set of brows.


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My Neighbourhood Watch

Love thy neighbour. Really? Are we sure about that one? It’s an awfully big commitment if we’re not even given a chance to vet them.

My poor neighbours have come under an excessive amount of scrutiny from me over the past few months. It’s hardly surprising that since unemployment beckoned I have found myself tracking the people on my street, their comings and goings, like a latter day Miss Marple. If I was actually detail orientated enough, had 20/20 vision and was capable of accurate character judgments, I would totally be solving crime by now.

As it is, all I’m left with is the Rear Window-esque tableaus that confront me. Last month I did grow a little paranoid over the Cyclist who spends a lot of time measuring out unknown liquids at midnight using a head lamp. I voiced concerns to Jim and Mick that he might be plotting terrorism. I have since amended that – I believe he is partaking in a home brewing course in his garage and has no time to do it during daylight hours because he’s so dedicated to cycling to and from his workplace.

The same apartment block houses the American Mother. I know she’s American because her accent can be heard clear as a bell whenever she screams at her child (estimated age: 10). I am unsure if the child has a hearing difficulty and American Mother is simply making her instructions clear, but it seems unlikely. Her most famous rant occurred while she helped her daughter with her homework.

American Mother: How can you not know what a synonym is? It’s easy! How can you not know? What is the synonym for a strawberry? (lengthy pause) There is none!

It remains unclear whether she really did employ a trick question as an educational tool, or whether she simply hadn’t thought her question through. When it’s said with a screaming American twang, everyone on the street has the opportunity to learn something. When American Mother’s daughter goes away for a weekend and her boyfriend comes to visit, no curtains are closed and candles are lit, everyone on the street also has the opportunity to learn a different kind of something.

American Mother’s apartment sits next to one that used to house the Manly Supporters. The Manly Supporters have moved out now – I assume that’s because they celebrated so wildly after the 2008 NRL Grand Final that no one can forget that they are Manly Supporters. Shame is a phenomenal motivator.

On the other side of our house our neighbours are the Old School Family. The Old School Family does old school things like breed (they have at least 2 children), own dogs, attempt DIY home renovations, set up lemonade stands and wave dad off to work each morning. The children scream, the dogs bark, the DIY home renovations tend to occur before 9am on a weekend (the dad was spotted astride the roof of their house at dawn on Easter Sunday, hammer in hand), and the lemonade is over-priced. It all looks very exhausting – no wonder old school families are going out of fashion.

Across the road is perhaps the most detested of neighbour types. Side-by-side sits a pair of Construction Crews. This isn’t a metaphor (or synonym) – there are 2 construction crews who dedicate their days to lounging, smoking and operating jack hammers at sporadic intervals. It’s been over 6 months, and the only people I don’t see around the 2 houses in question are the people that live there. I imagine they’re hiding. I would.

Of course, as with any street, there remains the hint (if not the existence) of the ultimate neighbour. The Pool Owner. Every now and then throughout summer I swear I heard the musical splashing sound of someone escaping the shackles of earthly sweat for the glorious, euphoric release of a crisp, well-maintained body of water. I have a dream of befriending these people, or at the very least, sending Jim over to befriend these people.

I just need to figure out where The Pool Owner lives. It’s my winter mission. Only then will the true meaning of loving thy neighbour (like the true meaning of Christmas or an accurate sample of Britney’s real voice) be discovered.


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Psychic Sensations

Have you ever been accused of having a sixth sense? I haven’t. I lack instinct, radar or reliable gut feelings. All I’m left with is what movies and TV have taught me, the wisdom of old people and the often unsolicited advice of family. And Oprah, obviously.

Living without a paranormal skill set has been a constant battle, but somehow I’ve managed to make it through life relatively intact. So it was with some skepticism that I went along to see a psychic over the weekend. Let me clarify that it was a birthday gift from the delightfully well-meaning Fi.

I have been wary of psychics ever since my last (and only) experience when Fi, Livinia and I stopped in on a fortune teller in New York one sangria sodden afternoon. It seemed like a great idea (the woman worked out of a room next door to a fire station where off-duty firemen were lounging), and my friends found it rather fulfilling. Then the psychic told me I had the aura of a serial killer. I’m paraphrasing, and she found a much nicer way to say it, but that was essentially the gist. She also suggested I give her US$100 so she could buy a special candle and pray for me. I explained I was a cash-poor backpacker, and departed quickly. My housemates remain unaware of this episode, lest they get paranoid and put locks on their doors.

Fi assured me this new psychic, my birthday present psychic, was the real deal. Apparently she had great word-of-mouth reviews, and I was clearly “much more at peace” now anyway.

I went, I returned, my world was not rocked. There was a moment afterwards when I convinced myself she may have been on the money (and a moment during when she stated “What are you doing tonight? Whatever you do, don’t go out.”). But then I recalled how much information I found myself giving her to prod her along. She mentioned my grandmother, but I was the one who had to inform her that Nanna had recently passed away… and then just like that, the psychic was talking to Nan. She found out how many siblings I had (from me), so it couldn’t be too hard to assume there’s the occasional tension between us.

I had planned on testing her properly. I had even intended to dress unlike myself, to remove all physical indicators of my character. If I wore something pink, perhaps it wouldn’t be so evident that I wasn’t actually a pink person – thus, by throwing her off the scent she would really have to use her sixth sense to stay on track. Then it seemed like a bit of an effort (and I didn’t actually own anything pink).

In the end, I suspect I made her job much easier. It’s human nature to try and help someone to connect the dots (and to want to momentarily believe that the dots connected themselves).

But all the same, I didn’t go out that night.


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Important Life Lessons

Geena Davis is in town, which I find a thrilling blast from the past (she hasn’t been too busy since Stuart Little 2). Discussion of this with housemate Jim led to a nostalgic re-living of one of her classics (in my mind) – A League of Their Own.

As I mulled the tale of a plucky pair of sisters playing baseball, spitting tobacco, timing how long it takes Tom Hanks to urinate and generally looking fabulous while milking cows, I couldn’t help but realize…

The Things A League of Their Own has taught me

1. Baseball exists – seriously, at the time, as an Australian, it was a revelation (side note: There’s no crying in baseball!)

2. The name Marla Hooch is phenomenal - they simply do not make names like that anymore

3. Rosie O’Donnell has not visibly changed in decades (a retrospective lesson)

4. Madonna can act – it helps if she’s playing a loose woman (don’t you love how I said ‘loose woman’ instead of ‘slut’?)

5. Do not try and do the splits like Geena Davis – it will not work out and you may get stuck

Within 10 years, movies are going to be responsible for 50% of all education*, so I next found myself considering the lessons one of my top 5 movies has given me. It’s not number 1 (it may be number 2), but it still has much sage wisdom to impart.

So without further ado, here are…

The Things Bring It On has taught me

1. Be aggressive, be-be aggressive

2. There’s no such thing as too many sequels (I currently own the box set of the first 5 Bring It On movies… fingers crossed the producers don’t stop cashing in any time soon)

3. Kirsten Dunst’s career peaked very early (all downhill post 2000)

4. Finding words in other words is fun (putting the ‘ass’ in ‘massive’, the ‘lewd’ in ‘deluded’, the ‘itch’ in ‘bitch’, the ‘whore’ in ‘horrible’), as is adding the word ‘cheer’ to anything (leading the discovery of the existence of ‘cheer-sex’)

5. Do not try and do a front handspring step out, round-off backhandspring step-out, round-off back handspring, full-twisting layout like Eliza Dushku – it will not work out, and Eliza almost certainly had a stunt double

* = I have made this statistic up, but doesn't it sound shocking and deplorable? I think I should writer teaser lines for current affairs shows.


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Meet The Hoff

Every household has an appliance that’s so temperamental it’s like dealing with an emo teenager, while withholding their eye liner. Ours is the oven.

It’s got the label ‘New World’ on it. I take this to mean Columbus discovered it while on a pleasure cruise to the Americas. I don’t know how it ended up in Australia, but if its indigenous owners want it back I completely understand. If I had a metal piece of crap that might as well be a cupboard with a glass door and handy grease stains, then I would be pretty attached to.

We call it The Hoff because it is perpetually drunk, moody and completely unpredictable (and loves running down beaches in slow motion, accompanied everywhere by a talking car). Like last night when it burnt my slow-roasted tomatoes in the time it took me to down a cup of tea, and then leisurely heated my little racks of lamb for almost 2 hours. I may have had more luck placing the tray in the sun on a particularly hot day. It doesn’t help when you’re trying to channel Martha Stewart for a dinner party of 6, but can’t provide any actual dinner until 9pm.

That’ll teach me for trying to be a grown up. Thank god for a cheese platter and three bottles of red wine.

The Hoff is my kitchen nemesis. It lulled me into a false sense of security 4 months ago when it turned out a succulent leg of lamb for a pre-Christmas feast. Though that was the last time I used it, it’s hardly the point. The point is if Machiavelli had a love child with stove top the result would be this oven-y spawn – it plots, it plans, it pretends to cook, but all it’s doing is biding its time.

People wonder why I eat so much pasta. It’s because boiled water has never let me down (and because pasta is awesome, obviously).


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My Favourite Prada Clutch

Last night was a memorable evening. It was the first time I’ve ever been to a restaurant that provides you with a range of novelty headwear upon arrival, merged three Hen’s Nights and a 21st birthday, and featured a drag queen performance and a wandering magician. I suppose that’s just another night in King’s Cross, but to get all of the above in one room (and dinner, the most important part) is no mean feat.

It’s always a sign of things to come when you approach the venue, only to be cut off from entering by a drunken bride zigging and zagging her way towards the door, supported by two friends who insist on holding their hands over her eyes the entire way. When you get to your seat and have to choose between a bald cap and a purple Marie Antoinette wig (among many options) it becomes evident that it won’t be a typical dining experience.

I was at a table of 3, while every other party numbered at least 15 people.

The 7.30pm seating of dinner was hosted by the delightful Prada Clutch. Yes, the title of this blog was misleading, I’m not talking about a fashion accessory but a drag queen. Anyone who knows me, has met me, or has simply seen me walking down the street would know I’m no clothes horse. I am currently wearing ugg boots, a pair of knee length shorts with an elastic waist band and in colour so bland it defies labeling, topped with a T-shirt I pretended to be buying for a brother in order not to feel judged when I made the purchase (because those retail people really care and were begging for an acceptable back story). The day I blog about an actual Prada clutch you might be too busy to read it… because the end of the world will be nigh.

Prada did an admirable job of introducing all the tables and their reasons for celebration. She only ran out of words when trying to explain why our trio was there. I don’t think the staff at the restaurant knew what to make of us. The other tables all got a flaming cake and a suitable theme/birthday song to which all the staff danced. Not wanting us to feel left out, we were belatedly treated to our own cake… along with what felt like an extended version of Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ while one valiant waitress gyrated about. We felt so guilty at her plight, we joined in.

We then high-fived each other and talked loudly about celebrating our ‘divorces’ with a night on the town. I really do need to stop providing a created back story to people who really don’t care in the first place.

The night was a fascinating petri dish of drunken celebrations, topped off by Prada Clutch performing ‘Proud Mary’, a future mother-in-law revealing her disapproval (to our table), a bridesmaid falling off a table she was dancing on and a farewell gift of penis maracas.

The maracas now feature prominently in my lounge room. Vogue Living’s coming around to do a spread on my design choices later this week.


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My Kind of Marathon

One afternoon, two cinematic releases, a sushi interval.

Why bother being just plain old ‘fit’? Be Filmic Fit. With that spirit I attended Kick Ass and Date Night in one evening. I’m practically proud. Practically, then a little ashamed, and a touch defiant.

Kick Ass is freaking brilliant. My current frontrunner for Movie of the Year. I know it’s early, but it was the most fun I’ve had at the cinema in a while (and I can say ‘a while’, because I’ve lived for, like, 25 full years). And more importantly, it makes me want to be a foul-mouthed 11 year old super hero – you know it’s good if it makes you want to return to Year 7 (a horrifying vintage). It’s shocking, funny and ridiculous. Most importantly it’s not just another super hero parody, it just takes all the clichés, acknowledges them, then inverts them. However, if you don’t like gore then you need not apply.

Date Night was fun, and truly hilarious in parts. It occasionally coasts on the glorious talent of Tina Fey and Steve Carell (and it is glorious). There are certainly missed opportunities and it probably plays it a little too safe, but on the whole it’s a tightly crafted film with a clever car chase and a phenomenal pole dancing sequence. And a shirtless Mark Wahlberg. Also, I want to be Tina Fey.

So, I want to be a foul-mouthed 11 year old super hero version of Tina Fey. Take a moment to process that. I do wear glasses if that helps legitimize the concept. And I am already fairly foul-mouthed. I have enough positive female role models from last night to last me at least a week.


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The 365th Day

This morning I awoke and had a mild panic attack about being 25. Being 25 is a recent development, and I didn’t think it bothered me too much. Apparently I was wrong.

Now some people (old people) would think I am being excessive/stupid/a moron for letting my quarter century bother me, but straight out of the gate there we have a problem. “A quarter of a century,” was the most common, grinning response from people aware of my date with destiny. Did you have to use the word ‘century’? Because to me that’s a reminder of a really long length of time… like how long I’ve been alive, for example.

It’s not the 25 years that bothers me, it’s the lack of achievement that comes with it. I am 25 and I can tie my shoe laces, but I’ve yet to completely master shaving my legs without cutting myself occasionally. I am 25, and am currently experiencing my longest run of employment since graduating from high school (I’m not counting the 9 months backpacking, because we all know I was taking part in a wanker-esque ‘School of Life’ period). I am 25 and movie posters adorn my lounge room (they’re cool movie posters though, so, quite defensible really).

No one can say, “But your only 25” either, because Keira Knightley was also born in 1985 and she’s basically been rocking out in corsets on screen since she left the womb. Lily Allen was born in ’85 and she’s already talking about retiring. Don’t get me started on Zac Hanson – he’s already a blast from the past because he’s been releasing albums since 1997. Haylie Duff is a slight consolation. We can’t all be winners.

My body is breaking down due to old age. My eyes are shot, my posture’s so bad I have a premature hunch and my wardrobe is an alarmingly accurate reflection of my greying taste. The only reason my lack of fitness doesn’t have a spot in the previous sentence is because it’s a permanent feature.

I console myself by playing down the whole ‘birthday’ scenario. It’s a phase, it’s over before it began. I can shake off the panic with the relief that’s there’s 364 days until I will feel truly old again. Unless I accidentally comes across some youths wearing their version of ‘shorts’ (they’re not really shorts are they? More like denim underwear) while crumping to Ke$ha. Then I may have to cry.


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