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If Barbie was an actual woman, she would be 5’9” tall, have a 39” bust, an 18” waist, 33” hips and a size 3 shoe.

• Barbie calls this a “full figure” and likes her weight at 110 lbs.

• At 5’9” tall and weighing 110 lbs, Barbie would have a BMI of 16.24 and fit the weight criteria for anorexia. She likely would not menstruate.

If Barbie was a real woman, she’d have to walk on all fours due to her proportions.

 • Slumber Party Barbie was introduced in 1965 and came with a bathroom scale permanently set at 110 lbs with a book entitled “How to Lose Weight” with directions inside stating simply “Don’t eat.”


what’s funny however is in my childhood I had two barbie (well three, one is this gift we got, little bo peep barbie, but that one quickly made it to the glass cupboard) and the way I play with them is either I hack more than half of their hairs off or by painting their hair in many colours. I did more typical things like dressing them up too and all that but it fades fast.

What’s even funnier is I ended up plucking both their heads off and there they went and I never missed them. After all, I have always been the car and japanese superhero insect and totoro and books kind of girl.

So, either:

a) it was actually a closet Freudian whatever act and I was unintentionally projecting my inability to conform to the standard of beauty by attempting to destroy the standard itself

b) I am actually a closet misogynist, because I decapitate women basically and thought the standard of coolness as to be male dominated like having fast cars and dudes in aviator sunglasses

c) I am actually a feminist, cause I destroy barbies obviously that’s explanation enough

d) I have pent up childhood anger angst and all that shite that found itself an outlet

e) none of the above

f) all of the above

Probable answer is actually G I think which is basically e) + f) put together.

But glad my barbie period is over with. I kinda like it better being an almost adult verging on a quarter life crisis with the possibility of a lawyering job looming and the social pressure of a relatively early marriage still intact. Wait, what?

(Source: imakenopromises, via oicarus)


Dmitri Krioukov is a physicist based at the University of California in San Diego. When faced with a court hearing over allegedly driving through a stop sign, he put together a paper called The Proof of Innocence, which he has since published. The abstract for the paper reads: “A way to fight your traffic tickets. The paper was awarded a special prize of $400 that the author did not have to pay to the state of California.”

Well played, Professor.

Read more here. 



(Source: curiositycounts)

Yesterday was the return of the most nibble-able jaw in the entire universe.

[press THIS while reading that for full effect]

Yes, utter chaos in Arcadia ladies and gents.
My foot was practically out of the door but then surprise, His Royal Nastiness storms in, all maroon shirt and impossible self, and there goes a month of resolution as I slowly and most distastefully returned to my seat and ended up staring for a good 5 seconds while wanting to trace fingers on the newly-shaved sides above his ears. Little fucker. 

I am now also a victim of insignificant details.
Last time it was sun-kissed skin and a pair of glasses. The time before was light green pullover with the very top unbuttoned exposing a small, random patch of skin. The time before that was calloused hands. The time before that was a bloody hoodie. And on, and on.
You see the pattern? 
Basically HRN could be the most normal person in the whole world while doing the most normal of things and a whole apocalypse would still erupt in my universe. Dun dun dun. 

Thankfully L still puts up with this shit but right now I think I need something more cathartic. I thought I need to make a half-assed confession in a semi-private blog that nobody reads and renders it as a tree that falls in a forest while no one is around to hear still makes a sound and carry on with my life. 

Thus, here it is. Confession pathétique cometh. 

So the confession is…. this HRN creature exists, and I am perhaps slightly head over heels. His Royal Nastiness and all his ridiculous, glorious ways exists and gives me constant migraines with his existence.

Unlike revered former Royals of before, this one is neither an artist, a lawyer, or an international politics student and certainly does not quote Schiller in a most offhanded fashion while talking about life. He reads the newspaper but that’s probably about it and the only thing I approve on his itunes is a single Björk song that probably has no idea how it got there. 
What? one asketh. Why? How? No idea.

who cares anymore? Because basically I’m done making excuses like dude wears his heart on his sleeves and is probably kinder than I’ll ever be and gave the most fantastic bear hugs and has the fluffiest hair that ever grazes my chin and has the sexiest scapulas in all of known universe etc etc etc (shame on me but I could go on and on here) and I’m too bored to be the galau bitches type so my general attitude now is somewhere in between  


I think I’ve tried everything to get rid of it. I’ve talk to people about it, alluded to it, talked it over martini, not talked about it, over analyzed it, contemplate it, do the lady doth protest too much methinks routine, cursed it, pissed at it. 
"Confront it." says L
"Show it. Say it straight in their faces. Tease it out."
"Yikes, no. That’s your style."
"It’s not yours I know but you’ve been on and on about this."
then I brood.
"I can’t though," I said. "My pride is the size of the continent of Africa."
"Well Africa has to fucking move for things to happen or she should just move on."


Africa insisted on not budging, naturally, and this has karma police written all over it because its too much a case of going against type that probably what I need is a healthy dose of (semi) public shaming. This is part 1 of that, and I’m ready for many parts after. So from now on, every time nasty pants shows up and makes a monkey of my heart: 

A man walks into a bar and says:
                                                Take my wife–please.
                                                                                    So you do.
            You take her out into the rain and you fall in love with her
                                                and she leaves you and you’re desolate.
You’re on your back in your undershirt, a broken man
                        on an ugly bedspread, staring at the water stains
                                                                                                on the ceiling.
                  And you can hear the man in the apartment above you
                                    taking off his shoes.
You hear the first boot hit the floor and you’re looking up,
                                                                                    you’re waiting
            because you thought it would follow, you thought there would be
                        some logic, perhaps, something to pull it all together
                  but here we are in the weeds again,
                                                                                         here we are
in the bowels of the thing: your world doesn’t make sense.
                        And then the second boot falls.
                                                            And then a third, a fourth, a fifth.

            A man walks into a bar and says:
                                                Take my wife–please.
                                                                        But you take him instead.
You take him home, and you make him a cheese sandwich,
            and you try to get his shoes off, but he kicks you
                                                                              and he keeps kicking you.
            You swallow a bottle of sleeping pills but they don’t work.
                        Boots continue to fall to the floor
                                                                        in the apartment above you.
You go to work the next day pretending nothing happened.
            Your co-workers ask
                                    if everything’s okay and you tell them
                                                                                    you’re just tired.
            And you’re trying to smile. And they’re trying to smile.

A man walks into a bar, you this time, and says:
                                    Make it a double.
            A man walks into a bar, you this time, and says:
                                                                                 Walk a mile in my shoes.
A man walks into a convenience store, still you, saying:
                                    I only wanted something simple, something generic…
            But the clerk tells you to buy something or get out.
A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river
                        but then he’s still left
with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away
                                                      but then he’s still left with his hands.