Silver lions in my head

Sn-snap-snap-snap-sn-sn-snap.

Flashing lights, deafening voices, and crowded bodies. It’s not a dance floor; it’s an airport.

“Kristen, are you pregnant?”

At the LAX airport, fifty black monster cameras swerve in the 70-degree November air like rain hammering against a window. Nonstop flashes capture a longhaired woman and a taller man in a blue baseball cap. Bushy eyebrows poke out over his sunglasses. Their mouths clamp in tight lines. A blonde woman and several men in suits push them forward, eager to see them to the finish line.

“Out of the way! Out – of – the – way,” the blonde’s voice booms.

“Kristen, are you going to cheat on Rob again?” a paparazzi belts hoarsely.

“Move,” a tall guy shouts.

“Move, please. Let us through.”

A neon yellow backpack pulls on Kristen Stewart’s green-and-black checkered button up. She blinks away the camera flashes, but they burn red under her eyelids.

“Yeah, move! Let us move!”

“Excuse me. Thank you.”

“Go away. Make room.”

The gazillionth camera flash attacks Kristen. Head down, she stares at the dark concrete below her black Converses. Sunglasses dangle from a soft white V-neck that moves with her body. A suited bodyguard fox trots to shove the paparazzi away.

The hoarse paparazzi’s camera is one lens away from Kristen’s head.

“Kristen, are you going to cheat on Robert again?” He is a desperate frog, and these are the last words he’ll ever croak.

Robert Pattinson trudges inches behind Kristen, his pale face scrubbed of emotion. All eyes on him, he turns toward a chubby cameraman who steps on his toes.

“Hey, leave her alone,” he says, and pushes forward.

The stout, mustached man’s eyes widen big enough for dollar bills to fit.

“What, you think she’s a good actress?” he shouts after Rob.

The bodyguard trips over himself and gestures toward a sparkling black van.

“Toward the car. Get in the car,” he says, monotone.

Hoarse Cheating Dude has to get the last say.

“Hey Robert! Be careful. Kristen’s gonna cheat on you again, man.”

A humid herd of sweaty paparazzi pushes each other backward, scrambling around the car’s windshield, trunk, and side doors. They bump and sn-snap-snap-sn-snap against the black frames.

Kristen walks onto the street to avoid the cameramen and scooches across the leather backseat.

“She’s gonna cheat on you again, man!”

Rob slides in after Kristen. The driver manically flashes a strobe light left and right behind the windshield, inches from the cameras. He starts the car and the paparazzi scuttle sideways like scared beetles.

“Woo! Yeeeeah,” fifty cameramen scream as the black van bolts away and blends in with LA traffic.

True life: I was a book snob. Seventh grade, Avenged Sevenfold-blasting, eyeliner-caking me was a huge fan of Twilight – until a year later when they blew up on the big screen and teenyboppers who’d never picked up a classic in their life were all over them. Before long my girly high school classmates were squeeing in MySpace bulletins about the new movie. I blogged about how stupid Twilight was, how annoying the cast was. No one had to know I drooled over Robert Pattinson’s eyebrows in my spare time.

But then there was that expressionless girl that was cast: Kristen Stewart. I’d seen her in Speak. She did a great job at playing a rape survivor. But why did she deserve to be cast as Robert Pattinson’s love interest? How could anyone be as gorgeous as him? Well duh, they couldn’t. I wrote her off as ugly.

I went to the Twilight premiere just to laugh at the most ridiculous parts: Oh… Edward’s sparkling in the sun instead of melting. Well then. Wait, did he really just hold out his arm to stop a van smacking into Bella? Wow, husband material.

My friend Bobby leaned in to me in the theater. “Did she really just say she’d rather die than stay away from him?”

A cackle burst from me and bubbled all the way down to row A.

“Ooh, so romantic. But NO,” I said loudly, and our corner of the back row cracked up. After that night, Edward lovers and Twilight haters alike spewed shit about Kristen.

“She’s uglier than a mole rat.”

“Kristen Stewart just needs to smile for once.”

“She’s so ungrateful. Why doesn’t she freakin’ smile?”

“Such a bad actress… Can’t even pull off one emotion.”

“Hahaha! K-Slut!”

“Rob took the homewrecker back? Oh god.”

“I just find it so funny how she can’t handle being famous.”

“I think a smile might actually break her face.”

Okay, so there’s no consistent smile in the back-to-back pictures paparazzi snap of her walking through an airport. So what? It’s not her job to smile; it’s her job to act. If people don’t like that, they can turn off the DVD player, right? But we want more. We eat up women’s smiles like my cat Cheshire needs catnip. We are addicted to seeing women put on their happy face. But why is Kristen singled out for being smileless?

When’s the last time you saw Megan Fox smile? What about Angelina Jolie? Kate Moss? Victoria Beckham? They’re all on Wonderwall.com’s list of, “Say Cheese! Stars Who Need to Smile For the Cameras.” Kristen ranks at number one, as she does on every other list of people who – gasp – stop smiling sometimes. But where are their surly male counterparts? The list consists of seventeen supposedly sullen actors. Twelve of them are women. The men: Justin Timberlake, Johnny Depp, Diddy, Mark Wahlberg, and Jonah Hill. Seriously? Who thinks of any of those guys as depressed or ungrateful? Or better yet, “sluts,” or “bitches?”

Of the women listed, Kristen is definitely the “bitchiest.” People would be lying if they said their irrational hatred of her didn’t grow from their seeds of irrational hatred of Twilight. A mopey Bella devotes her life – both alive and undead – to a vampire that sparkles? Gross, right? Only preteen chicks are dumb enough to read or watch that crap. Once in tenth grade I liked a guy who hated Twilight so much that he stopped talking to me entirely when I said I’d read the books. But actually. He friend-dumped me on AOL Instant Messenger.

It’s funny how Twilight is aimed at a teen girl audience and they just happen to be the most hated movies. I guess “chick flicks” aren’t good enough. Not enough gore? Too much bitching? Tits or GTFO?

The smileless Angelina Jolie and Megan Fox are in movies that men would see – action movies, movies that put their bodies on display. Angelina: Tomb Raider, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Salt. Megan: Transformers, Jennifer’s Body. But Kristen? She’s played a rape survivor, a girl with a neuromuscular disease, a stripper, Joan Jett, and Snow White. Guys aren’t exactly jumping to see her.

Kristen landed the role of Bella Swan, who risks a lot to be with Edward. But isn’t that what we do? Aren’t we all stupid, especially in love? We talk shit on Kristen just for doing her job. “She doesn’t smile enough.” For who? Her fans? Her family? PR? People who Photoshop her face over Grumpy Cat and caption it with “MOST DEPRESSED LOVE CHILD”? And what kind of smile are we talking, since whenever she does, articles like “5 of Kristen Stewart’s Most Determined Efforts to Smile” dominate social networks? Maybe it doesn’t feel natural for Kristen and tons of other women to force a smile constantly, for which they’d probably be called fake. No, show your real face and you’re a bitch.

And when should she be beaming? At movie premieres? At 2 a.m. in the local convenience store? In airports? In interviews? While she’s filming? Her characters are mostly traumatized teen girls, but surely they could smile more. Because Kristen’s most known as Bella, she becomes her. Mopey. Lovesick. Stupid bitch.

Does Kristen’s unsmiling face get noticed more because she’s a well-known chick favorite? Throughout middle school, I heard, “Dude, he screamed like a girl!” and “Don’t be a pussy!” every day. Being called a girl was probably the worst thing a poor Gateway Junior High boy could hear. Oh, poor you – you’re being compared to me. Must suck, huh? We all know there’s “chick lit” and “chick flicks,” and Twilight falls under both. Would Kristen be half the Hollywood’s Most Hated Celeb she is if she wasn’t Bella Swan? If she branched out? What if she became a Bond Babe? Kristen said in an interview, “I don’t wanna play a babe,” but the anti-Twilight flag flew regardless.

Daniel Craig, most recent James Bond and gray haired producer of Skyfall, slouches in a chair across from a blonde Australian interviewer.

“Kristen Stewart said recently that she would like to be a Bond girl,” she says. Her voice sounds like a high schooler’s mom trying to drag them out of bed at 5 a.m.

“Did she now?”

“Would you like her to be a Bond girl?” Her eyes widen.

Daniel Craig is quick to answer. “No, she’s in Twilight.”

The interviewer bends over and cracks up, a curtain of blonde hair falling over her laughing mouth.

“No, I’m being nasty. I’m only saying that because Breaking Dawn Part 2 is coming out this weekend…” Daniel Craig tries.

The interviewer nods furiously. “Right, you don’t wanna compete.”

“We’re in direct competition with them.”

“Oh, of course.”

Kristen’s unsmilingness has become a joke for us non-Hollywoods and the big names alike. When she showed up at the 2013 Oscars, celebrities tweeted left and right about how miserable she looked.

Wanda Sykes tweeted, “Can we agree to let Kristen Stewart go home?”

Jesse Tyler Ferguson followed that up with, “Kristen Stewart just get shoved into a dress and pushed onstage after being screamed at : JUST DO IT! #Oscars2013”

Audra McDonald agrees: “I’ve never met her but I feel like Kristen Stewart is mad at me.”

And Wanda Sykes rounded it off with, “According to People she cut her foot very badly 2 days ago stepping on glass. Did she step on her comb too?”

Come on, Kristen. You should know better than to not live up to standard beauty expectations.

Oscars host Seth MacFarlane got on stage with his boyish face and puked up countless racist, sexist, heterosexist jokes. The best one?

“Django Unchained is the story of a man fighting to get back his woman, who has been subjected to unthinkable violence. Or as Chris Brown and Rihanna call it, a date movie.” Seth grins toothily.

So THIS is where Kristen should smile. Makes sense.

It’s the Oscars, and Kristen walks the red carpet on crutches. No, scratch that. She ditches the crutches, hands them to her blonde personal assistant, and limps out toward a mob of cameras.

Sn-sn-snap-snap. Snap-snap-snap.

“Kristen! How’s it going, Kristen?” a cameraman yells.

“Kristen, back to your right, honey.”

Her lacey white gown curves against her hips and flares out petal-like around her feet. Her smile flickers as she shakes her leg and runs a hand through her hair. She wears one white high heel and one white flat, concealing a bruised leg. Warm LA wind tousles her messy brown hair, curling innocently at the ends.

“Right side. Right side. Right side.”

She raises her eyebrows at a crouching cameraman and hobbles to her right, ready for a trillion more close ups. Kristen loses her balance and falls forward. She holds up a finger as she hops back up on her heel.

“Don’t be shy.”

Huge cardboard Oscars figures and billboards spread out behind her while adults cram around and throw up their iPhones, ready to Instagram, Twitpic, and Facebook her. No doubt some of them will add, “Does she look high or what?”

Kristen topples off her white heel onto her hurt leg again. She bites her bottom lip and looks sideways. Instead of muttering, “Fuck!” she gives a determined smile and raises herself back on her heel.

“How you feelin’?”

She waves, flashes a smile, and gives a thumbs up. Sn-snap-snap-sn-snap.

“Kristen, hold that smile.”

Cameras aim at her hips and film slowly down her dress. She ducks, claps her hands together, and hurries off the carpet. And almost trips. Her personal assistant mumbles something to her. She runs her hands through her hair. Turns around. Poses some more. Looks over and mouths, “Hey,” at a photographer.

“Heeeey, Mademoiselle! Back to your right.”

Her smile isn’t glued to her face, but it’s not invisible, either.

“Let me see that beautiful smile.”

Snap-snap-snap-snap. Snap.

“Aww yeah! There we go.”

She shakes her leg before limping off. She gives one last smile and wave over her shoulder and the crutches are back.

The right-right-right cameraman films all this, YouTubes it, and within minutes, a stream of highly intelligible comments comes flooding through the virtual gates:

“What a dumb attention whore”

“meryl streep is the only one who could pull red carpet crutches off. Not dis bitch”

“This woman would be the perfect choice to play the next Bond girl. She’s pretty, slutty and fond of British semen.”

“ewwww ugh she did not deserve to present an award with Dan Radcliffe! He is way 2 good for her”

Well then. Clearly these YouTubers have never made mistakes, and certainly nothing as horrific as cheating. Because, you know, once a cheater, always a – dumb attention whore bad actress bitch?

July 2012, Kristen was caught cheating on Robert Pattinson. She never said he was her boyfriend – she’s hinted at it, but when they’re asked they change the subject. But when Kristen was photographed in “compromising positions” – said the esteemed US Weekly – with her Snow White and the Huntsman director Rupert Sanders, she was called a homewrecker. Seems normal, right? She cheated, better own up to it? But even after she released a public apology, CNN, Fox News, and the Huffington Post were all over the “case.” There’s “Kristen Cheats on Rob!”, “Kristen Stewart: Homewrecker,” and “Top 12 Headlines of 2012: Kristen Stewart’s Cheating Scandal”... but where’s the director who cheated on his wife? We don’t see his name. I guess he didn’t play a role in the scandal. He has kids, too. Where’s his blame? Is a dad in his 40s really less responsible for an affair than a 22-year-old woman is? Where was his public apology? He faded away while Kristen blew up as the slutty mopey homewrecker.

Or as Will Ferrell would put it, the trampire. Before the oceanic blue background of the Conan O’Brien show, Will Ferrell staged a nervous breakdown over Kristen cheating.

“What they had was so special, Conan. You don’t even know what they had. They were in love,” Will fake-sobs, wringing his hands. “And she just threw it all away.”

Conan’s jaw drops. “I just - Will, I’m sure it’s gonna be fine.”

“You wouldn’t know!” Will shouts, screwing up his eyes.

“What do you mean I wouldn’t know? I’ve been in love,” Conan shouts, throwing his hand in the air.

“She – is – a – trampire.” Will’s eyebrows knit together and his spit sprays the front row. That’s it: the funny switch is flipped and the audience screams. Nothing like Will Ferrell butting into your love life. Will was mocking our blame-the-other-woman culture, but the next day black and orange hoodies, t-shirts, and tank tops with “K-Stew is a Trampire!”, “Kristen Stewart Fucking Sucks,” and “I Wanna Take a Dump on Kristen Stewart” became available. All $20-$30. Get ‘em while they’re hot!

Flashback to 2010 when Ashton Kutcher cheated on his wife Demi Moore. Unlike Kristen, Ashton was married to the person he cheated on. And what happened? A couple tabloids later he was in movie after movie. Then he starred in the TV show Two and a Half Men with Charlie Sheen, who also cheated on his wife with no real consequence.

Ashton cheated again on Mila Kunis in 2013. Not a peep.

Jude Law cheated on his wife with the nanny of his four kids, publicly apologized, and went on his merry way, getting a shit ton of movie roles.

And Jesse James cheated on his fiancée Kat Von D with 19 different women.

But no one remembers them for sleeping around. What’s Kristen? A villain for kissing her director. The other woman. The slut. The tramp. Homewrecker. Skank. Whore. Surely not human. And why was Kristen cheating considered national news? Sure, let’s ignore that she’s helped raise tons by making PSAs for RAINN – an anti-sexual assault organization – and Security on Campus.

To shield Hollywood from more shameful acts like Kristen’s, I’ve concocted a~~n average woman~~ superwoman recipe:

15 dashes of red silk dress

10 teaspoons of sculpted eyebrows

66 vats of shimmering smiles

30 pounds of concealer (consult Vogue to match your skin tone)

30 shades of smoky eyes

26 pinches of nice ass

27 squeezes of big boobs

32 puckers of luscious red lips

26 sprinkles of stilettos

44 dollops of windchime voices

23 inches of long locks

8.56 tablespoons of bubbly personality

And that’s it! The application is simple: first, you sift the red silk dress, concealer, and windchime voices into a vat of conventional femininity. Then you toss in the locks, the eyebrows, the ass, and the lips and stir until they mold into a nice unrecognizable mush. Then you inject whatever’s left and hope for the best. Cook at 212 degrees until it looks hot and ready to toss on the red carpet.

Does your superwoman look like Kristen Stewart?

But maybe I should just calm down. I’m thinking too much. I mean, why do I care? I don’t know Kristen. It’s not like she’s actually hurt by any of these stupid comments. It’s not like we have better things to be concerned about. No poverty or inequality. Not like girls who look up to her might suddenly start to hate her, thanks to our society that blames “the other woman.” We should expect much more from women than from men: a huge ass, a nice rack, and a smile. After all, that’s what they’re there for. That and making fun of the ones who don’t fit in.

Two months after the “cheating scandal” possessed national news, Kristen hurries through an LAX airport. A burly, bearded security guard in blue leads a man and a woman out of a door behind the security gate. Kristen follows. She keeps her head down, her straggly brown hair falling over her face. Thick-rimmed glasses sit on her high cheekbones and a baggy white V-neck tied in a knot at her hip swallows her torso. Skinny jeans hug her thighs and black Converses quickly patter across the cold tile floor.

Men behind monster cameras zoom in from several yards away. Let’s get her.

“Kriiiisteeen,” a man bellows at her. He’s a playground bully taunting the same kid he’s been picking on all through elementary school. She doesn’t look.

“Kriiisten, did you know Rupert’s a lot older than you?”

The cameraman’s bullfrog voice ricochets off the floor and bounces around the white walls. Everyone stares – some with wide eyes, some with furrowed brows, and some rolling their eyes. Some watch Kristen, others keep an eye on the bulky cameras.

Snap-snap-snap.

Several middle-aged men look at the camera with scrunched up noses. A blonde ponytailed woman stops mid-conversation to watch Kristen pass her. A cloud of tall security guards floats around Kristen as she makes her way toward body scanner #5.

“Hey Kristen, did you know that Rupert was married?”

Ponytail Woman and every airport worker in blue stares intently at Kristen, but everyone’s done looking at the cameras. Kristen shrugs off her ear buds from around her shoulders, sets her iPhone in a plastic tray to avoid the metal detectors, and steps forward.

We’re so used to women smiling that when they don’t, we jump to conclusions. If you don’t smile, you’re a bitch. If you do smile, well, you still run the risk of being called a bitch. So what’s the point of looking happy? What if it’s just uncomfortable for some people? Does a constant “bitchface” really reveal someone’s personality? Why don’t we treat men with the same apprehension? Maybe because smiling is passive, a way to invite conversation. A way of saying, “Hey, talk to me.” A way of letting people know you’re pleased with what you see.

In ninth grade – my self-loathing post-gothic pubescent middle school funk – I sat in computer class, staring at a huge Dell screen. I couldn’t believe we were forced to type about foxes jumping over lazy dogs for an hour. Who gave a shit about our typing speed? Surely we were all awesome at it, considering how many of my classmates, with their hair representing the entire color wheel, posted MySpace bulletins until 5 am.

A brown-haired girl sitting next to me who I’d known since kindergarten raised her voice over the clacking keys.

“Why are you so angry?” she asked. Clack-clack-clack.

I didn’t even know she was talking to me. I kept typing about foxes and dogs.

“Hello?” she crooned.

My head snapped to the left. “What?”

She raised her thick eyebrows. “Why do you look so angry?”

I shrugged. “I dunno, maybe because I’ve been typing the same thing about foxes and dogs for an hour?”

“Well, why don’t you try smiling? You’d be so much prettier,” she said matter-of-factly, and wiggled her butt in her rolly chair to scoot closer to her Dell.

I furrowed my brows and stared at the word “fox” on my screen for what must have been a good two minutes.

“I don’t see you smiling all the time,” I blurted out.

“But I do,” she said, flashing a grin full of molars.

I nodded slowly. “Good for you.”

“But seriously. Try smiling.” She gazed at me with her huge brown eyes and then kept clacking away.

“Okay,” I muttered, tapping furiously on my keys. From then on, I was ten times more aware of how my face looked – appropriate? Approachable? Happy? Scary? I didn’t think anyone cared about my lack of ready-made smiles. I guess I was wrong. I don’t think some of the boys in my class cracked a smile once in their lives, but where was this girl to tell them off?

Some women celebrities may flash dazzling smiles at thousands of cameras shoved at their faces, boobs, butts, and legs. But why does every single one have to? Robert Pattinson doesn’t smile any more than Kristen does, but I don’t see him making headlines with photo captions like, “Ouch! Did Rob wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

News sites call the ever-unsmiling Sean Penn a “brooding man.” Brooding. A man can get by without smiling – even scowling – and it’s all good, but a woman? No way. She has to be charmingly cheerful – pleased with people demanding that she smiles, with people asking why she plays such a shitty character, with strangers yelling “why’d you cheat?” from every direction. Yeah, I’d totally smile if I was her.

Women are bitches and men are broody. Women are chicks and homewreckers and men are… men. Kristen fails at the typical woman’s role of “décor.” Her not smiling and having the audacity to cheat on a man she never publicly said she loved – scandal. Just the other day Readers Digest listed her as one of the least trusted celebrities – less trusted than the Confederacy or the BP oil spill. In our celebrity culture, women who refuse to play along are the enemy.

But why is our question “why doesn’t she smile?” and not “why do we care?” Sometimes it only takes a couple seconds of one of Kristen’s interviews for people to realize that she’s not that bad.

It’s May 2012 and Kristen sits with her legs crossed in Jay Leno’s cream-colored guest armchair. Her red-orange blazer falls open to reveal a beige James Dean t-shirt. She jiggles her leg in black skinny jeans and flats, smiling and waving at the cheering audience.

“Now, are there dwarfs in the movie like the original Snow White?” Jay Leno asks, waving his hands out wide. Kristen’s Snow White and the Huntsman was about to premiere in June.

“Um… Yes, yeah, totally, yeah,” Kristen nods. “We have great – we have amazing dwarves, actually.” She scratches her nose.

“But you have eight.”

“We do.” She shakes her leg. Her wavy brown hair shines as she nods. “I – I wonder why we have eight.”

“The eighth one is… is horny, if I’m not mistaken,” Leno says. The audience shrieks with laughter.

Kristen giggles. “They’re definitely a little off, yeah, I think a few of them are probably –”

“That extra dwarf Disney wanted nothing to do with.” The sharp shoulders of Leno’s suit jacket move with his arms as his hands trace an X in the air.

Kristen laughs and looks down at her fingernails. She picks at a hangnail.

Leno leans forward with his arm out to Kristen. “But I mean,” he begins with his eyebrows raised, no trace of a smile. “And it really – it’s not –” He raises his hands, palms to the audience, and shakes his head vigorously. “Guys, this is not a chick flick. It’s a real adventure movie.” He turns to Kristen with wide eyes, his hands lowered onto the glossy hardwood table. “I mean, it’s really excit-”

“Which is a total chick flick, I think,” Kristen says to the audience, nodding.

Leno turns away from her. The audience is silent.
“Yeah, well… okay.” He raises his hands and quickly drops them. “Well that’s good.” The audience cheers.

“In a great way,” Kristen says.

“But you play a total chick, you’re Snow White.”

Leno’s right; she does play a total chick. If by total chick you mean an armor-wearing, sword-wielding warrior princess who survives in the wild, rises from the dead, leads an army into battle, and overthrows an evil queen all in the space of a few weeks. If that’s what a total chick is, sign me up. But even when Kristen plays a badass role, all people see is the homewrecker who cheated on her unofficial boyfriend. Whispers snake through theaters as Kristen squints at the sun bursting through the bars of her Snow White tower:

“Ew, she doesn’t even look convincing!”

“Fairest of them all? Yeeeah, that mirror must be broken…”

“Well not according to the direeector…”

Snap-snap-snap-snap. Tight white pants hug Kristen’s knees as she floats in her all-black Converses out of a NYC hotel. A herd of cameras bigger than Kristen’s head capture her zippery leather Balenciaga jacket, her breezy black tank top, and her unsmiling lips. A black van waits for her at the edge of the sidewalk. Sunglasses shield her green eyes that are trained to the sidewalk.

“Heeey, Kristen, how you doin’?” a longhaired cameraman shouts.

She runs a hand through the brown roots of her reddish hair. Snap snap. Her mane swings sideways over her face again.

“We came just for you!”

“Awesome!” Kristen squeaks.

“Over the shoulder!” a bass voice blurts out.

“Fuck you,” she shoots back.

“Ooooh,” the bass voice says. It sounds like someone stole his wallet.

“Oho-ho-ho,” several other bros join in. “That’s gonna burn.”

A last minute taunt rings out: “Cheater.”

“I hate you,” she mumbles, and the black door slams shut.

Google “Kristen Stewart never smiles” and you’ll get 19,900,000 results. Depending on your Internet connection, you could even get all those haha-woman-not-smiling-what-is-this pictures in a fraction of a second. You don’t have to dig too deep to find these gems, either: “Kristen Stewart is so expressionless she might as well be a brick wall,” “The 22 Times Kristen Stewart Smiled in 2012,” “Kristen Stewart Gets Naked in ‘On The Road,’ Acts Like a Real B#tch About It,” and “Kristen Stewart is a Slut.” Woman hate is just a click away. But if that’s too much effort for you, you can watch a woman walk down the street in booty shorts, a gown, or a burka and hear dudes shout, “Wooo! Yeah sexy, lemme hit that!” accompanied by a waft of cheap cologne. Or you could go to your local Shop and Stop and have the grandpa in front of you in Aisle 4 say to the busty cashier, “Smile, baby!” That cashier might flash a smile, or she might throw the man’s groceries on the tile floor. The only question you need to ask is, “What’s it got to do with me?”

Silver lions in my head

21 May 2013

16 May 2013

Sophomore year: nailed it.

13 May 2013

Smile, Baby!

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