TTC: An exercise in sarcasm


I know that we all love a little TTC hate-on sesh. For those of you outside Toronto, I know you are tired of hearing about it, so here’s a cute rabbit video:

I have decided to stop being such a TTC hater, mostly because it’s a lot of rage to carry around all the time. BUT! Before I “let it all go” on the advice of my therapist (blind guy outside convenience store up the street), I’m just gonna get some things off my chest. My beautiful, flushed and inviting chest…

Advice for riders / I can’t believe you’re alive

1. Congratulations on the purchase of your MEC backpack / Prada bag / dog carrier! This item is extremely fantastic and we are all happy to see that you know it goes on your back / shoulder / everyone else’s personal space. Noooo ssshhh now, it’s ok I LOVE the way it hits the back of my head and body while you turn around to check yourself out in the window. Yes, it does suit you and it is hands down more important than human beings.

2. Counting out the correct amount of pocket change for the TTC is exciting business indeed! Let’s all play “Bank” on the curb, at your home or better yet in the summer, when the wind and snow aren’t peeling my face off.

3. Go home Nona. No, don’t eat that.

4. The museum is most certainly not too far for your group of calm and mature 8 year olds to walk… but I’m glad the little tikes are all here with the rest of society. It’s not like we segregate them till they’re older for a reason or anything. You let the little “trouble-maker” of a “cutie-pie” over there know that if he pops one more juice box I’m going to tell him where he really came from: Mommy’s Yoga teacher.

5. I had no idea the Serbian Cologne Convention had relocated to this very vehicle! EXCITING!

6. Oh my god did you get one of those fancy $6 seats!? Wow, you must be special or famous or something because they only let really really cool people take up two seats when it’s super jammed and sweaty up in here! Thanks for being on my trip – your presence really changed my life! Oh, one more thing: Can I have some more of your dandruff please? There’s only a little bit of it on my leg and I’d like to relive this moment later.

7. You know what, you’re right. This is not a good time to teach your kid about indoor voices.

8. Your music is amazing

9. Staring contests are only contests if we’re BOTH playing silly! You should get that rash checked out, the one you’re scratching through your pocket and is making your face go all red… Seems like it’s a real disturbance to y-  Wait, you look relieved now so never mind.
10. Listen, let’s get serious. Times are tough. If you really want to jump, be a grown up and buy a gun.

Advice for operators / Who cares:

1. Get a real problem.

xoxo Jess

(Leave a comment with your personal TTC grievance and win and internet hug!)


The Raft: How my dad inadvertently taught me to understand that people are all really different, and that’s ok – even though he’s the whitest cop in the world.


I just re-read my last post and realized I haven’t written anything in a looong time. Sowwy fwends! Honestly, I had a ton of stuff going on this last month (new job, new classes, new life/love status). Anyway, YOU look great! How are you?

So, I said I would talk about my parents. Ever attempt suicide? Me neither. My parents did a pretty good job for the most part. In fact, the older I get, the more I love my parents… more than I ever thought possible. They are such incredibly different people and it’s an absolute wonder how they ever came together, wed and reproduced, but they did (points EXISTANCE!). Then they split up – the best decision for all involved and probably the kindest gift they could have given their children. Pro’ly gonna get a “fuck institutions” tattoo now… just decided.

yeah it kinda hurt - but it was totally worth it.

I have too many stories about my parents to tell them all at once. You don’t end up being a comedian, vying for laughter (and subsequently love and attention from strangers) because your parents were super well-adjusted adults. BUT, though my folks may not have been the sanest of people – they were awesome. First story is gonna be about my dad.

Here’s a snap-shot of my dad:
-often picked me up from school wearing a variety of offensive t-shirts (e.g. “bring back capital punishment” complete with hanging corpse)
-learned what “rock-paper-scissors” is on a plane in 2011.
-would surprise-fight me as a kid to ensure I mastered the skills of self-defense.
-has played bag pipes for the Prince of Monaco.
-unable to pass a dog withought saying hello via head scratch
-sets off flare every time he arrives at cottage to let neighbours know he is there.
-offered to get me a gun to keep in my house when I was nervous about a robbery up the street. when I protested saying “what if someone uses it on me” quickly replied “that’s why you damn well make sure you use it first”.
-sleeps under more blankets than any other person I’ve ever known.
-regularly provokes children with unwanted, spontaneous water fights.
-introduced me to jimi hendrix, zz top, the beatles and led zeppelin.
-great at impressions and accents but will NEVER perform on command
-cleans vigorously and often.
-built the best tree fort of all my friends, including child-sized trap door to second floor. (SECOND FLOOR.)
-made me re-upholster a boat the one and only day I was at our family cottage during the busiest summer of my life.
-super duper soft spot for his only daughter: “the light in my life”
-cannot sit still. At all. Ever.

you are ready, daughter, now use your training wisely.

Starting every summer from when I was about 10, my brother and I were allowed to invite one friend each to the cottage for a weekend. It was the best. We camped on islands, went out in the canoe, built fires, and generally had the most fun you can possibly have at any moment in your life. FLAMINGO FAMILY COTTAGE VACATION!  The summer I was 14, my friend Katie (who I still adore) came with me. Katie and I had become really good friends and bonded over a love of dance* and a lack of suave sex appeal many other girls at school seemed to have fallen into over night. We were so excited to get away and be our “real” selves – wild girls.

finally, I can be the cool person I know I am inside.

finally, I can be the cool person I know I am inside.

We spent the entire car ride planning all the fun we would have and talking about the guys at school we were sooooo into: Travis  and Ryan (I totally made that dream come to fruition, but at a much later date. I attribute the time lapse to the maturation of my crush over high school, and NOT to the fact that I looked 9 from 1993 to 2001). WE WERE GONNA HAVE THE BEST TIME EVEERRR!! NOBODY ELSE KNOWS HOW WILD AND SEXY WE ARE!!

For some reason, we thought we were going to party hard the first night we were there as we would be sequestered from the cottage and my family in our little tent. The only issue was that we had not put any plans in place to accomplish said partying. After hours of debate and nervous scripting, we asked my dad if he would buy us alcohol. He said no and was not impressed. After that blew up in our faces I think we tried smoking some dried grass rolled in leaves and seeing if that made us feel not-sober. I don’t mean grass as in weed, but grass as in the long green stuff that cows eat and that obesssive compulsive suburbanites tend to daily because they don’t have sex anymore and their kids hate them. Ya know, dirt hair. We were so desperate to experiment with drugs and the freedom of being our “real selves” but we weren’t really cool (or bad) enough to know that you had to ask Nic’s mom well in advance if you wanted a hook-up for a weekend. We had no clue how to get stuff or from who. Actually, I think it’s whom.


The next day we woke up sans hangover and for some reason we decided we wanted to build a raft. My dad and grandpa had a ton of plywood and scraps under the cottage and my dad agreed to let us use the tools. Now, here’s where things got a little difficult. Katie and I wanted the sense of pride and accomplishment that comes from a job well-done, but my dad is a type A maniac when it comes to EVERYTHING (I have no idea where I get it). This is a man who will do every project to completion, to the T, to the max and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him more uptight and anxious about anything than when he watched us fumble with the tools and try to build a floating boat after 3 months of wood-working class and literally no plan at all other than “let’s just see what happens”.

The situation unfolded like this:

Jess & Katie: um, should we, like, saw this part?

Dad: how is this going to float, girls?

J & K: DAD! Go away. UGH!

Dad: ok, but first, you know that if you just put this in the water and sit on it, it’s going to sink, right? You know that right?

J & K: oh my god whatever! We’ll just put a tube under it or something

Dad: wha- no no no. A tube? Seriously? Ok, why don’t I drive you to Canadian Tire and we’ll get some empty water coolers. We can attach them with rope, we’ll drill holes through the, the main protion you’re constructing right now and-

J & K: DAD!!! Oooohhh my god. No. We like it like this. It’s sooo cool! Like, retro or something.

Dad: Jess, please, let me help you. Just at least let me drill a support board underneath so it won’t capsi-


Dad: ok, ok ok.

a little gummy-pop over here, a little tap-dance to the left aaand DONE!

My dad paced around the vicinity of our construction zone, shaking his head and wringing his hands. It was actual torture for him. When Kate and I would run off to grab a drink or get supplies, we would return to find his small additions to our raft. A jagged nail had been hammered down, a knot had been re-tied with boy scout expertise. Eventually, we got it all done, and took it for a test run. And guess what!? IT FLOATED! We tied our homemade raft to the dock, and drifted on the lake in the sun. We were so proud of ourselves. I still think of that as one of the coolest things I ever did… Wow. I just realized I need to make more rafts.

My dad came down to the water to check things out and though he continued to berate our craftsmanship, I could see that he was really impressed with us for taking on a giant endeavor and somehow managing to complete it successfully with little help. I handed him my camera. We stretched out and then both covered our faces with our hats (cause that let’s people know you don’t care what they think… you’re relaxing, HARD.) My dad would not take the picture “Guys, uncover your faces!” I was putting up a fight but he protested “Jess, I’m telling you right now, when you’re older and you look back on this day, you’re going to want to be able to see what you looked like, so take off your goddamn hat” (he was right). We lifted them off our faces. As soon as the photo was snapped and we had appropriately immortalized our craft, my dad said “now get off that f*cken’ thing and help me take it apart. We are burning it in the fire tonight. I can’t stand to look at it any longer”. He was not kidding and we were ok with that.

The thing is, I knew that it wasn’t the greatest raft in the world, and that if we had “saved it for next year” it would have ended up rotting under the cottage. But it really was the first time, through adult eyes, I recognized that my dad was just one of those people that hates doing things half-assed and will always go to the ends of the earth to “get it done right”. I am a lot like that, but not entirely. And though I figured out a lot of crap about buoyancy and splinters that day, I also realized that my dad and I have  different styles – but that they can both be good for different things. I also learned that if you do a job really poorly  around someone like that, they’ll eventually just do it for you – thanks lesson, you helped me pass grade 11 math and server training!

We cooked marshmallows over our axed up project and I have to say, they were delicious! I’m just glad we weren’t hung-over from all that grass smoking – I can’t handle sweet stuff after a night of partying.

xoxo Jess

*Katie and I were not allowed to play out field in softball together because we made up dance routines instead of paying attention to the game.

Everybody’s having babies but I’m having MARTINIS!


Last night I went to sleep just after midnight and I woke up at 8:30 this morning. This was an amazing accomplishment for me because for the last 3 weeks I have been “napping” 3 or 4 hours a night and waking up in a total haze. God Bless nighttime allergy medication – that shit is better than Oxy Con!

Being tired is not a good colour on me. Unlike some people who can plow through it maintaining a decent level of kindness, focus and reality, I regress to a 13 year old biatch whose favourite show has just been cancelled and is experiencing menstrual cramps for the first time ever.

I'm the smart one!

I'm the virgin!

Let me illustrate the extent of my insanity/exhaustion with a concrete example, plucked from my real, actual life! When making dinner the other night my knife fell behind the stove and I completely lost it, calling the knife an effing whore whose “mother should have aborted it!” The stove is a big square and it’s hard to move! My arms and face hurt! How could the knife have let me down so bad!? What was that goddamn-dollar-store-c*nt of butter knife’s PROBLEM!!?? Then I cried.

just look at you, no wonder you didn't get in to college.

Seriously though, living in a constant state of exhaustion got me thinking about all my kick-ass lady and guy friends who have babies and young kids (eek). They sleep less than I was sleeping and still manage not to accidently put their thumbs through the soft spot.


Which kinda brings me to my next point (haha I sooo don’t make points, I ramble!). I don’t know about everyone else out there, but at 28 years old, my facebook is FULL of friends’ wedding pics, baby pics and “our new kitchen sink” (!!!) pics. On the other hand my facebook is full of crap like “b dick #5” videos and “what movie was number 1 the day your mom first gave your dad a b.j.” (Heaven Can Wait) or “what song was playing when your parents told you they were divorcing” (Batdance by Prince).


I guess what I’m saying is, my life is really FFUUUUNNN!!!!!!

No what I’m actually saying is, Though I’m not there yet (ever?), I’m really proud of the parent-friends I have. I was tired for a few weeks and my lack of sleep nearly killed me. It DID kill an old lady who pissed me off by taking too long on the TTC stairs and ended up with a shank in her neck.

You sure you wanna tango with the Devil, Señorita?

Even though I’m a mother to a stoner-rabbit, it’s not the same. I mean, how can you compare the work I put in, the countless hay, litter, and cuddles I have to muster up the energy for DAILY to a li’l ol’ person-baby. It’s close, but not quiiite the same.

I did actually get a taste of parenthood on the way home from a cottage trip last summer and it was alarming. One of my very best friends has a son of about 9 months now, and I love him even though I have to say he sometimes comes across as standoffish (baby-jerk). As we shut the car doors to drive home, the little dude started crying. I can only imagine how a weekend of dance parties and “you got iced!” had made him feel… I know I was feeling excellent! NOT. Anyway, I had decided to be a genius and smoke a joint before the car ride to help with the nausea lingering from my 3-day hangover. Bad idea.

Dealing with a crying bebe while stoned is not something I would recommend… especially when the car ride is going to be at least 3 hours long. And he cried like “LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!” did. I don’t think I would have handled it very well sober, but stoned, and hung-over and free of ANY baby experience, I was kind of a mess. “What should we do!? Is he sad? Is he hungry? Should I give him this banana? He doesn’t eat FOOD? Wait, you can’t do ANYTHING!?” Not acceptable.

This experience made me triple my daily dose of birth control pills for 2 months.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, though they are horrible at times, kids and babies are still pretty much the coolest people at any time, in any place – they don’t even have to try. Essentially, they are always Gwen Stefani – babies even change outfits as often! And they are that way because of their parents. This little post is a salute to my pals who are dealing with little monsters – not to be confused with young Lady Gaga fans, though babies puke and pass out as often too! Moms and Dads, you’re totally doing it! You’re not effing it all up, guys! WAY TO GO!! You get up, tired, every day and you contribute your energy and time to a small human being (again, not quite as challenging as caring for a bunny, but still). I’m proud of you! Also, I look forward to giving your kid their first alcoholic beverage at age 14.  Hopefully the song playing will be popular enough to be mentioned on CrapPage (what I imagine “Facebook” will be in 10 years).

xoxo Jess

p.s. next post I’m going to write about how badly my parents messed me up… oh my GAWD. Hahahahaha.

SHAZAMO! (or the longest story ever about pee)


So, I guess I’m going to tell you about the time a random dude peed in my freakin’  bed. Ugh. Get ready to judge me.

I was in University. Usually in my free time outside of class I would tutor orphaned blind kids or organize sing-alongs for all our nation’s heroes living at the retirement home down the street. But on one particular night, a couple of pals convinced me to partake in a little tomfoolery and alcohol tasting. Now, I don’t know what was in that wiggly-juice, but it made me feel like Cinderella pretending to be a Thunder Cat in a dog costume. *high kick!*

No, seriously I think it was like the 8th night in a row of partying at Doogie’s and we had overstayed the friendly window between “it’s done” and “you’re done”. You know… when they turn the lights on and you notice the disgust and judgment on the pub-owner’s face who is old enough to think of all the people who’d give their left hand for an education and here you all are drinking it away like a bunch of goddamn ungrateful brats.

I totally love these fun Greek costumes... this weird line party is so cool let's do a shot!

I remember stumbling home with one really good friend and one not really good friend. My really good friend wanted to go to his house to keep partying, but I wanted to go to mine… and then the lower-level friend, who we’ll call “Shazamo” (I’m so wild!) kind of split the camp (because he was one of them thinkin’ types and realized that if he went to my house he could try to get all up in me which, spoiler alert, didn’t happen). So, Shazamo goes “nah bro, I’m gonna go to her place. Cool if I sleep on your couch? I’m so drunk I don’t want to drive”.

This is the part where I confess that I “used to be” a TOTAL idiot. I was naive to say the least* and when it came to situations like these, I was never quite sure when it was a hit-on or a genuine request. The young chap was just being responsible, looking for a safe haven and in need of shelter so as not to risk the lives of others.

Also he had pot and I hadn’t fully decided if I did/didn’t have a crush on him.

SO ANYWAY, I’m like, ok, yeah, let’s just hang at my place and you can grab your car in the morning. Whatever. My good friend bailed (red flag) and minutes later we arrived at my kick-ass apartment.

Welcome. Oh yes, the crown molding really does highlight my money, thank you for noticing. More champagne-rubies?

After talking for a few minutes I realized Shazamo was hammered to the gills. He could barely form words and asked me about school 3 times in a row “sho yeeoo go tza skull? Woot aauurrrrr hhyuu sztudeeyen?”. How had I not noticed this before!?  Oh right, that whole total idiot thing.

After probably 3 minutes of hell and no materialization of said pot, I said I had to work in the morning (truth) and was going to bed. Now, Shazamo was no slouch, drunk as he was. As I went to my room he asked me if he could share my bed, no funny stuff, because he had really effed up his back. (Hahahaha what a loser!). BUT, he had actually mentioned back surgery before that… so -and I actually remember it word for word- I said: “listen, you can sleep in my bed, but if you try anything, Shazamo, I will cut you”. I actually said “cut”. Cause I’m a part-time Puerto-Rican drug-runner.

Jessica Flamingo, 2003, Whitby Correctional Facility

So we went to bed, fully dressed and both passed out immediately. Which was fine by me. Everything was going great. I was getting my dream-on, HARD, when suddenly I woke up sweating. Like, covered in SO MUCH SWEAT. I started freaking out, never having sweat so much before in my life (a result of my inclination toward art vs. sport) when I sat up and realized it was all over my bed. “DID I JUST PEE!?” I thought to myself, still foggy, and then it crept into my mind, slowly, like a tiger stalking a zebra. I spun around to the low-level friend sharing my 100% cotton futon mattress. “SHAZAMO WAKE UP! You PEED in my bed!” He mumbled something in drunk but got up. The rest is a bit of a blur, but I think after I showered I threw him a cloth and gave him and an old sheet to wear and made him leave his jeans in my bathroom.  I soaked up as much of the pee as I could with towels and then put clean ones and laundry soap all over my mattress (what would YOU do!?) and then we spent the rest of the night on the couches. I took the big one.



The next day I woke up and after talking with Shazamo for a few seconds I realized that he had no idea what happened. He did not know why we were on the couches or why his jeans were wet and in my bathroom….  He probably thought he got lucky and protein-ed in them or something.

I went to the kitchen to make breakfast and was faced with what is still one of the biggest hosting dilemmas I’ve ever experienced: I was making a hangover breaky before work. It smelled delicious, the parm and tomato omelet sizzling in the pan, toast bronzin’ right on up. Crap… do I make extra breaky for piss-head over there, say nothing about the futon thus saving his fragile 20-something year old ego or do I eat it in front of him and tell in detail how he was going to spend his day cleaning my goddamn mattress and apologizing? I made extra breaky (well what would YOU do!?). I sat down and handed him the plate “here – you must be hungry too”. And then Shazamo, the piss-ass-effing-pisser looks at me and says “oh” *sucking air in through teeth* “actually, I don’t really like eggs… they’re like a weird texture for me.”


And that, boys and girls, is the story of how Shazamo died by Heinz bottle.

I know it looks all red and scary but don't worry, it's just blood.

I’m sure this story is probably going to make me seem like a full blown dumb-dumb and I can’t wait to hear all my friends say stuff like “I can’t believe you made him breakfast” but to that I say: I know.

Anyway, I actually saw this guy from time to time around town, and was always cool with him (despite never actually paying attention to anything he said to me because his face caused me to relapse into the moment of waking up covered in another person’s urine. BLEHCK). I didn’t spread the story to all our mutual buddies, or smear his name.  I just posted it on the Internet. *Japanese Anime Giggle*

Oh, and the mattress… yeah, um, I flipped it? And then I put an extra foam thing on it? And then I just pretended it never happened because I couldn’t afford another bed and I didn’t want to ask my parents for a new one because I would have to tell them this story.

Well what would YOU DO!?

xoxo Jess


(*For years after moving away from my home town (population 6,000) I would turn and wave when a car would drive by and honk assuming I knew the driver… why else would they honk unless we knew each other? I later learned it’s because honking is the douchebag’s poetry.)

Bill Cosby: rabbit/jerk


As you may have seen by the “rabbits” page, I have a pet rabbit. I talk about him a lot and to basically anyone who will listen – it’s likely the reason I’m 28, unmarried and without a full time job… my empty womb gathering cobwebs, my post-secondary debt gaining interest with every month and haunting my dreams.

um... date me?

I adopted my bunny from an Animal Shelter in Guelph 4 years ago, selecting him of all the other animals because of one simple statement on his description card: “A laid-back dude who loves to cuddle”. I was smoking a lot of pot at the time (oh.em.gee. soooo much pot), and it sounded to me like the perfect fit… no work with the pay off of a perma-friend. He would be my Guy On The Couch.

This Guy!

Now, Bill Cosby and I have had some great times together. Backyard pool parties and krumping in the living room are a regular occurrence in our home. When we snuggle down hard like motha-effin’ gangstahs on Sunday afternoons, me with my tea (gin) Bill with his carrot (carrot) and do the crossword, it’s like I never knew anyone out there could get me, ya know, like, really “get me” for who I am…

yeah I know it's SO weird but that's just how my coffee-maker makes it.

Anyway, like most people with pets, I pretend that my rabbit can talk to me, and he frequently answers me in a voice that sounds a lot like mine, only distinctly more “oogly googly”. Usually our conversations get pretty deep and philosophical (This Guy!) but every once in a while, if I haven’t been home much because of work or have been a little stingy with the treat-dispensing, these conversations quickly turn sour, often accompanied with a big basket of BAD attitude. I guess the best illustration of this would be “the grocery store fight” a few summers ago… Buckle up folks cuz shit’s about ta get RE-EAL.

Now, just a heads up that I have been trying to let this fight go for a while, but after some pretty intense sessions with my therapist (Jehovah Witness plumber who fixes my shower every month), I realized I would need to do something to help me. So, I’m going to re-enact the argument for you here so I can finally move forward.

great at diminishing shower leaks and your chances of having sex!

Ok, here it goes. It all started out on a hot day a few summers ago. I was putting away my newly purchased groceries when Bill hopped out from under the kitchen table to say “hi”.

Jess: Hi my little baby-bunzo-dunzo-rabbit-bunno! Did you miss your mommy?

Bill: Not really.

Jess: What? Really!? You didn’t miss me? But I’ve been gone all morning!

Bill: I guess I didn’t notice ‘cause you’re a fucking bitch!

Jess: WHOA! WHOA! Slow down! That’s a horrible way to talk to your mommy! I feed you and love you and cuddle you everyday!

Bill: Yeah right… Except when you’re too busy picking up stray ass at the grocery store you goddamn whore! WHERE’S MY FOOD!? Or did you forget about me, as usual, Mom!

Jess: Bill Cosby! Where is all this anger coming from!? You’re acting crazy! I took a little longer than usual because it’s so nice out, but I don’t think I was gone that long…

Bill: Like you care. You can’t pay attention to anything unless it comes with a drink or a hard-on.


(and it went on and on… )

I hate you.

Guys, I have to say, as hurt as I was to have Bill totally berate me like that, it got worse. How? Well, I looked outside and realized my landlords were standing at the kitchen window, staring in at me, their jaws dropped to the ground (this actually happened) out of pure shock to have overheard the raging argument I’d just had with my 4 pound rabbit. I was pretty embarrassed. But then, I thought a little more about it and I realized something: I had nothing to be embarrassed about. Bill was the one being a total jerk and if anyone should feel stupid, it was quite obviously him.

Wow. That feels good. I think this whole “sharing effed up stories” thing could work for me… maybe next week I’ll post about the time a random guy peed in my bed… such a TEASE! haha. Yup, that’s what they call me!*

*nobody calls me that. I put out.

xoxo Jess

Christmas time is AMAAAZING!! (except for poor people)


K, I used to be almost poor – the kind where you still get to do some cool stuff, but you know other kids who get to do waaaaayyy more stuff than you and they have better clothes and lunches. BUT! I definitely had a lot of advantages and so when I say “except for poor people” what I mean is, people who actually don’t have ANY money. Ew.

Oh my god! We totally went to the same daycare!

So! This is my secondo bloggo posto. Supes funs for suuuuure. How is everyone doing? I noticed today that this site has NINE hits!! Nine hits that are almost all mine… yup. Makin’ big waves on the interwebs. *finger guns*

So…. it’s gettin’ cold out, eh?

This Christmas, my grandma decided that my dad, brother and I were going to accompany her on a Cruise (!!!). My family has only travelled together once before, so this is a pretty big deal. It’s also terrifying. First off, let me just say that my gma is STRAIGHT EDGE! Despite all of mine and my* brother’s attempts to get her to try beer/wine/acid/pot/flavoured coffee, she is SERIOUS about no substances in her body. I mean, who doesn’t let their grandkids shroom their pizza!!?? IT’S SATURDAY MARY!!

Looking forward to the boundary-pushing performances!

Anyway, we are all pretty stoked to be going away together, but I need some tips because I’m sharing a room with my grandma (sexy, no?). How will I disguise my impending drunken 4am crawl-home-skiees!? She’s being so super cool organizing this big trip, so I don’t want to vomit my gin martini and olive chunks all over her Flamingo Christmas Family Vacation… any help?

Oh also, just in general, if anyone knows how to get drugs past US security (as a white person) hit me up yo!!!

xoxo Jess

hmm... the dogs singled you out right away, but, just look at you! They must be off this time...

*How the eff do you write or say that kind of possessive language (my and my bro’s? my brother and my’s?) let me know. me learn francais first, so me dumb-bad at anglais.