Yesssss! The final copies of Exes and Ohs just arrived in my hot little hands! It’s crazy to see it all pretty and bound and shiny…like an actual book. People keep saying “Oh you must be so excited and happy!” and…I am but…I’m also really nervous. Obviously because I want the book to do well but also because I poured my heart into it, writing about life and friends and humiliation and heartbreak. It opens you up to a lot more criticism and judgment than if you wrote, say, an 8th grade social studies text book.

For you Harry Potter fans, this book is my horcrux.

So if you find it, please don’t stab it with a basilisk fang. That’s just a waste of paper.

In other news, YES I’m definitely having a book party! So if you’re in NYC on Wednesday June 8, come on down to the Hotel Chantelle where I’ll be signing (and selling) books and celebrating. More details to come…XOXO

Guys, if you want to learn how to dance, look no further than one John Jacobson. And ladies, back the F off, I saw him first.

Oh John. You had me at “kick, ball change.”

When I was a gossip columnist I interviewed Bar Refaeli (or however you spell it) and yes, in pictures she has a good body. But in person? Her figure is unbelievable. Literally, the only word that sprang to mind was “impossible.” She has huge boobs and then this impossibly tiny waist but still a curvy booty.

Leo, on the other hand, is a sparrow-chested little larvae of a man, whose face is an unsettling mix of old and young, like Benjamin Button. Honestly, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if five years from now we find in a playpen demanding to watch Matlock.

Pfft just look at him, clearly running away from that beefier gentleman behind him, flapping those spindly little arms like a helpless penguin.

My point in all this is: Leo was retarded to break up with Bar. I mean sure, her name is Bar and that’s awkward but hey, names can be chanced. I wouldn’t care if my name was Adolf as long as I had those boobs bolted to my chest.

Leo, you’ve made a big mistake. Take some HGH and try to get her back. Trust me.

Tonight I’m going to the always wonderful Pink & Black Tie gala hosted by my BFFFFF Stacy London from What Not to Wear. The event benefits breast cancer research and is always a glitteringly good time. But dressing for this event is hard because you have to wear something pink and/or black. So here are my choices:

1. Ted Baker’s Body Con dress

It has a slightly Kardashian vibe since it’s super tight and has strong shoulders. I like it but I’m wondering if it’s too casual?

2. Lipy’s Pleated Sweetheart mini

This actually isn’t the exact dress; for some reason I can’t find a pic of it anywhere. But it’s pretty similar. Mine just has more muted colors with a more lavender tone.

Help me choose!! Cast your vote in the comments section or on Twitter and also help me figure out how to wear my hair. Eeek!

Ok first of all, who in this day and age is named Debby. She’s, like, 18–how did her parents name her that in the 90s? Or whenever she was born, I can’t really do much math.

Anyway, Deb and I rocked the same BCBG dress during recent event–me at Amy’s glittering wedding and Debby at the premiere of Prom, some new Disney movie with too much angst and not enough sex. Take a look at both of us and cast your vote for the best dressed!

Shallon:

Debby:

Some of you loudly disagreed with my recent tweet that no man, ever, should wear jean shorts. EVER. So fine, in the interest of scientific proof, here are the only three type of jorts that exists and why you should avoid them at all costs.

1. The Hipster Jort

The only thing worse than a Brooklynite in the winter is a Brooklynite in the summer, when their lack of deodorant/good taste become woefully apparent. Guys, if you want to have sex with someone besides a fat girl wearing a floral romper with some Etsy-esque haircut, you’ll avoid pretty much everything going on in this picture, from the gaylord jorts to the rapey facial hair.

2. The “I’m a Club Promoter” Jort

Notice how the spindly legs protruding out of these things are white. Can’t you just picture these contraptions on a guy who calls himself Vanilla Thunder and has cornrows and a dodgy “soul patch”? These hideous jorts courtesy of the king of hideous, Ed Hardy. I think a dose of roofies come free with each pair you buy.

3. The Pedo-Jort

By all means, wear micro-jorts this summer. But don’t come cryin’ to me when your life ends up as a template for an episode of Law & Order: SVU.

Not to be whatever and gossip about those who have passed away, especially such a great beauty like Elizabeth Taylor…

but…

Is it just me or do her eyes not look purple?

I mean…right? They look blue, don’t they? Maybe I’m taking this purple thing a little too literally. I see some people have described them as violet, which to me has always looked like a shade of blue, not purple. If that’s the case, then I guess this pic (assuming it’s not photoshopped to high heaven) makes a pretty good case for violet eyes:

In any case, she was stunning. Have you seen her movies and actually looked at the size of her waist?? My cocker spaniel had more girth! I guess that’s kind of a Lester trait…

Good news everyone! I’m reasonably certain that every single one of you reading this has a much better ass then an Kate Moss, at least judging by her latest trip down the Louis Vuitton runway.

The big hullabaloo about the show wasn’t that it looks like someone let the air out of her behind, it was that she was–gasp!–smoking as she strutted the runway. Um, is this Victorian London? People smoke. Yes, even women. Some women can vote and own land too.

I know right, what is the world coming to?

I’m not sure at what point in the aging process you start receiving old people catalogues. The kind that feature cat sweaters and padded toilet seats.

My grandmother, bless her, gave me one such catalog because…?? I have no idea. Perhaps deep down she knows it’ll be delightful fodder for this blog. If so, Gigi, I thank you.

Prepare to be delighted at the incredible bounty of crap housed within this 68-page Smithsonian of uselessness!

In these solipsistic grips of twenty-something youth, it’s easy to forget that some people have real problems. Namely, the cold unflinching hand of death. Namely, stage 4 ovarian cancer.

One of my friends pointed me to the blog of this girl who was diagnosed with 6-12 months to live. 6 months equates to 182 days. So, in the spirit of “living the fuck out of life” she came up with a list of 50 things she wanted to do before…

As the page loaded and I waited to see her list, I instantly thought of my own mortal to-do list. Epic things sprung to mind:

• Write a NY Times bestseller
• Buy Mama an Aston Martin.
• Order everything on the menu at Las Brisas in Laguna Beach
• Marry a boy wearing Nantucket Reds. Learn to sail
• Call you and tell you how much I’ve always loved you, even though you’ll probably hang up on me.

But then the site opened and I saw the heartbreaking simplicity of her list.

1. Swim with sharks
2. Swim with dolphins
3. Be treated like a celebrity for a day
4. Go on tour with a band
5. Go to Magic Mountain
6. Go to Disneyland
7. Hold a newborn baby
8. Court side seat at a Suns game (go Suns!)
9. Make out with James Franco
10. Learn how to play “Here Comes the Sun” on guitar
11. Do YOGA EVERY DAY
12. Win a contest
13. Toast at a wedding
14. Learn to roll my R’s
15. Go back to Spain
16. Stay at the Shady Dell in Bisbee AZ
17. Visit the Grand Canyon
18. Invent a signature sauce (and have it bottled)
19. Ride a horse (running speed)
20. Try a food challenge at a restaurant
21. Shave a design in my hair
22. Register my body to donate to science
23. Speak to a class
24. Run a mile in 6 minutes
25. Volunteer in a 3rd world country
26. Learn to snowboard
27. Learn to play Sweet Caroline on piano
28. Get married in Vegas
29. Eat at a 5 star restaurant
30. Go to Coney Island
31. Learn to make espresso art
32. Learn Spanish (fluently)
33. Drive a classic car
34. Preferably the Ford Falcon I’ve wanted since I was 13
35. Get neck and hand tattoos
36. Skydive (again)
37. Take a picture every day
38. Write letters to family and friends
39. Have sex on the beach
40. Stay in a presidential suite at a hotel
41. Surprise an old friend
42. Have a family portrait
43. Grow my own food
44. Make beer
45. Learn to knit
46. Learn to juggle
47. Pet a lion
48. Pet an elephant
49. Hold a koala
50. Have a proper tea party

I have done #1, 2, certainly 3, definitely 4-6, HELLS YEAH 9 (actually, she ain’t missin’ much, trust me), 12-14, 23, have more or less done 25, 29 many times over, 30 (again, not missing much), 43 was boring, 45 I found to be a surprisingly stressful pastime (it’s the repetitive nature of it I think), but 47, 48 and 50 were all pretty rad.

Numbers, 7, 10, 16, and 22 just seem unsavory, I don’t even understand what 31 is, 35 would ruin my flawless beauty, 40 would be lonely without you, 46 would get me laid approximately ZERO times, but anyone who has accomplished 49 makes me seethe with Ranger Rick-fueled jealousy.

But all in all, I’ve done about 19 things on her list. A dying girl with no other goal in life has only checked off about 5 goals and I’ve done 19. Ninefuckingteen. I’m not saying this to brag–no, no, quite the opposite.

I’m ashamed of myself for sipping my white wine spritzers alone in front of my expensive wardrobe and crying because I’m not more famous. I’m ashamed for grumbling that my $5000 mattress is making my shoulder hurt. I’m ashamed for brooding when Mama doesn’t get me Restalyne injections for Christmas.
I am a silly, vain creature, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.