Things That Bothered Me At Work Today:
1) When people smell bad and leave their stink at my desk when they walk away.
2) When people can't add two whole numbers together.
3) When those things happen simultaneously.
I can't handle it.
Also, I got sad today because I saw a bunch of relatively inexpensive framed art online today and I wanted all of it and I very responsibly did not buy it because I DO NOT CURRENTLY HAVE WALLS UPON WHICH TO HANG SAID ART BECAUSE I AM WAITING TO MOVE TO CHICAGO SO SOMEONE PLEASE GIVE ME A JOB.
So yeah. Instead I bought a Prada messenger bag, because my old Fossil one has a hole in it and I'm a label whore.
In other news, my paternal grandmother passed away on Sunday/Easter/my cousin's 16th birthday. Clearly, a flair for the dramatic runs in the family. I haven't really dealt with it all that much because it was a whirlwind of people I don't know and family I haven't seen in years and me being freaked out at being a pallbearer. And then there was the fact that both of my parents would be in attendance and I'm pretty sure the last time I saw them in the same room, let alone speaking to each other, was in the late 90s. For real.
Shockingly, pretty much everything went down without a hitch. I've decided to take my time and not force myself to think about it or be sad about it. It'll happen when it happens. In the meantime, I've chosen to remember things like how she used to pick me up every Thursday when my mom worked late and take me to pick up my comic book subscription. Or the time I was around 4 years old and my mom walked in on the two of us and my grandfather draped in costume jewelry playing the shit out of fake musical instruments in front of MTV. Or how she once wrapped all of my Christmas presents in Hanukkah wrapping paper because she thought it was pretty and had no idea what a dreidle was.
She was pretty awesome.
And now I get to go work all damn weekend. Yee. Haw.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
Tell Me Something Good
So I'm back at my original office for the time being until the Corporate Gods grant me my wish and move me to Chicago. Maybe I should sacrifice something, like a goat or perhaps a virgin? I actually tried goat a few weeks back (it was... not great?) at the Indian restaurant down the street, so maybe I could ask them and they can just use it after? Economical and pagan all at once! At any rate, it's probably easier than finding a virgin.
The best part about this office is the satellite radio. Not many people know where the "control room" for it is, so I pretty much get to do whatever I want and generally no one notices unless I put on something like mariachi. I'm pretty pleased that no one's really messed with in in the 5 months I've gone and it's still on this quirky catch-all sort of station. This morning I've heard the Spice Girls, Nick Lowe, No Doubt, Queen, Whitney Houston, and (unfortunately) The Wallflowers. They get into these weird but fabulous grooves from time to time and they'll play late 80's-early 90's dance or house for like 30 minutes and you'll hear Lisa Stansfield, Cathy Dennis, and Betty Boo and then two minutes later it's a block featuring Faith Evans and Total and Monica and En Vogue and then suddenly you're hearing New Order and The Cult. I love it.
And now they've ruined everything with Phil Collins. Why? I'm shaking my fist.
The staff has changed probably like 95% since I've been gone and I think that at least one or two of them thinks I'm new. Like this girl this morning talked to me really slowly and tried to show me where "they put things here." I'm going to allow myself to be amused by it for now.
Tomorrow I've got a library-and-comic-book-store date with my aunt and little cousin in the morning and then I'm seeing the closing performance of MIA, starring the gorgeous and talented Daina Griffith, at the Pittsburgh Playhouse with my (also gorgeous and talented) wifey, Raquel. Sunday, I'm going to serve myself a heaping plate of ham and family dysfunction at my grandmother's. Normal is relative and my relatives aren't normal, but I love most of them.
And that's that.
The best part about this office is the satellite radio. Not many people know where the "control room" for it is, so I pretty much get to do whatever I want and generally no one notices unless I put on something like mariachi. I'm pretty pleased that no one's really messed with in in the 5 months I've gone and it's still on this quirky catch-all sort of station. This morning I've heard the Spice Girls, Nick Lowe, No Doubt, Queen, Whitney Houston, and (unfortunately) The Wallflowers. They get into these weird but fabulous grooves from time to time and they'll play late 80's-early 90's dance or house for like 30 minutes and you'll hear Lisa Stansfield, Cathy Dennis, and Betty Boo and then two minutes later it's a block featuring Faith Evans and Total and Monica and En Vogue and then suddenly you're hearing New Order and The Cult. I love it.
And now they've ruined everything with Phil Collins. Why? I'm shaking my fist.
The staff has changed probably like 95% since I've been gone and I think that at least one or two of them thinks I'm new. Like this girl this morning talked to me really slowly and tried to show me where "they put things here." I'm going to allow myself to be amused by it for now.
Tomorrow I've got a library-and-comic-book-store date with my aunt and little cousin in the morning and then I'm seeing the closing performance of MIA, starring the gorgeous and talented Daina Griffith, at the Pittsburgh Playhouse with my (also gorgeous and talented) wifey, Raquel. Sunday, I'm going to serve myself a heaping plate of ham and family dysfunction at my grandmother's. Normal is relative and my relatives aren't normal, but I love most of them.
And that's that.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Talkin' Square, Square Biz
The other day I linked to a review I wrote of a gay erotic comic for a non-profit LGBT comic website, Prism Comics.
The next day I was alerted to an angry Facebook rant from one of the creators, Robert Fraser, where he pretty much personally attacked me, quoting my Facebook profile out of context. The president of Prism Comics, Zan Christensen, then "apologized," essentially for letting my work even be published on their website, stating it was basically against everything their organization stood for.
Oh, and the "followers" of Robert Fraser also took the liberty of saying I was "probably fat and ugly, anyway."
Basically, it's all over now. I defended myself and my work when honestly, I probably shouldn't have, because nothing is going to change and I gave them the satisfaction of thinking it affected me personally when it didn't. Go ahead and call me fat and ugly, misquote me, and whatever you need to do to make me the bad guy. Fat, ugly guys can still type and be intelligent, succesful writers. And that doesn't even matter because I'm cute and I know it.
What bothers me is the hypocrisy of a website asking me to write a review and then getting all up in arms when it's negative. The ridiculousness of having a feature called "Color Commentary" and then telling me that I was misinformed, that the website isn't for "news and reviews," that apparently it's only for the sunshine-and-rainbows-and-unicorns kind of stories about LGBT comics.
It amazes me that I was attacked for being negative and not supporting the LGBT comics community by being called "fat" and "ugly" and saying that I just like "shitting" on everything. The very people who bitched about there being no place in the community for my divisive and negative review spit even worse vitriol when they don't like what they hear or see and that is unacceptable as far as I'm concerned and also a major problem with gay culture at large.
This is the last you'll hear from me about this particular situation and I don't know if I'll ever write for Prism Comics again, despite a great e-mail of support from their editors. I won't keep quiet about my opinion, though, you can be quite sure of that, and I won't hide my disappointment that people can't be mature and agree to disagree, either.
In other news, I shaved my beard into mutton chops today. Reactions thus far:
My boss at work looked at me and said, "Whoooaaaa! It's fancy beard day!" and then said I looked like I should be drinking bourbon.
A co-worker said, "Hey, Martin van Buren, shouldn't you be hitting the campaign trail?"
My boyfriend said, via text, "Very cute, babe!" because that's his job and he's amazing and wonderful.
We'll see if it lasts because, honestly, part of the reason I have a beard is because I absolutely LOATHE shaving and that includes any shaping on my face. Generally, I shave my neck like twice a week and that's it. So, dependent upon my feelings about mutton chop maintenance, I may or may not be keeping them.
That is all.
The next day I was alerted to an angry Facebook rant from one of the creators, Robert Fraser, where he pretty much personally attacked me, quoting my Facebook profile out of context. The president of Prism Comics, Zan Christensen, then "apologized," essentially for letting my work even be published on their website, stating it was basically against everything their organization stood for.
Oh, and the "followers" of Robert Fraser also took the liberty of saying I was "probably fat and ugly, anyway."
Basically, it's all over now. I defended myself and my work when honestly, I probably shouldn't have, because nothing is going to change and I gave them the satisfaction of thinking it affected me personally when it didn't. Go ahead and call me fat and ugly, misquote me, and whatever you need to do to make me the bad guy. Fat, ugly guys can still type and be intelligent, succesful writers. And that doesn't even matter because I'm cute and I know it.
What bothers me is the hypocrisy of a website asking me to write a review and then getting all up in arms when it's negative. The ridiculousness of having a feature called "Color Commentary" and then telling me that I was misinformed, that the website isn't for "news and reviews," that apparently it's only for the sunshine-and-rainbows-and-unicorns kind of stories about LGBT comics.
It amazes me that I was attacked for being negative and not supporting the LGBT comics community by being called "fat" and "ugly" and saying that I just like "shitting" on everything. The very people who bitched about there being no place in the community for my divisive and negative review spit even worse vitriol when they don't like what they hear or see and that is unacceptable as far as I'm concerned and also a major problem with gay culture at large.
This is the last you'll hear from me about this particular situation and I don't know if I'll ever write for Prism Comics again, despite a great e-mail of support from their editors. I won't keep quiet about my opinion, though, you can be quite sure of that, and I won't hide my disappointment that people can't be mature and agree to disagree, either.
In other news, I shaved my beard into mutton chops today. Reactions thus far:
My boss at work looked at me and said, "Whoooaaaa! It's fancy beard day!" and then said I looked like I should be drinking bourbon.
A co-worker said, "Hey, Martin van Buren, shouldn't you be hitting the campaign trail?"
My boyfriend said, via text, "Very cute, babe!" because that's his job and he's amazing and wonderful.
We'll see if it lasts because, honestly, part of the reason I have a beard is because I absolutely LOATHE shaving and that includes any shaping on my face. Generally, I shave my neck like twice a week and that's it. So, dependent upon my feelings about mutton chop maintenance, I may or may not be keeping them.
That is all.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sometimes, you gotta work hard for it
It's been a rough couple of days, y'all, I won't lie.
This weekend consisted of:
-Dog-Sitting
-Working two double shifts at the second job
-Publishing a new review on prismcomics.org
-A healthy dose of paranoia and self-sabotage
My aunt/sista/bestie went with one of her childhood friends to visit another childhood friend in Baltimore, so my mom came and took her kid for a fun-filled sleepover while I got the dog, Nadia. Nadia and I go way back; we usually hang out when her family goes on vacation and generally speaking, she's adorable and bucketloads of fun. She's fond of stuffed toys which she promptly evicerates and prances around with. These are her Bo-Bos. She doesn't want you to actually play with them, she just wants to show you and then turn around and have you scratch her ass. You can pat her on the head; she will immediately turn around and rub her ass on you. Her single-mindedness and devotion to ass-rubbing is kind of admirable, in my opinion.
Between my staying over and partying with Nadia the dog, I worked front of house for four shows downtown at the theater, which, while time consuming, is basically a blast. The people I work with are just so incredibly fabulous and fun to hang out with that it's absolutely like getting paid to hang out with my friends. Plus, usually some patron does something idiotic and we can all laugh about it. Win-win! This weekend was even better because it was Tekkoshocon, the annual Pittsburgh Anime convention, so we got lots of fanciful wigs, glitter, leather, antennae, thigh-high boots, and assorted skanks in goth makeup with tiny outfits leaving breasts akimbo and ass cheeks a-flappin' in the breeze. And bedazzled trenchcoats. Never have I seen so many bedazzled trenchcoats.
I don't know if it's just a product of our culture or the times or whatever but it seems like when people purchase tickets for an event - and it could be anything: sports, a concert, poetry slam, whatever - they get this fucked up sense of entitlement like their entrance into the show allows them carte blanche to act like classless lunatics and behave contrary to the rules of both society and the establishment they're patronizing.
Where I work, we actually have a pretty liberal late seating and re-entrance policy. A lot of theaters around won't even let you in the door if you're late or get up to pee; we do. You might have to wait a minute and you'll likely have to sit in a different seat, but we'll get you in there. Shocking, I know, that we want you to get your money's worth and actually see the entire performance. Also, it'd probably be a little classless to shout "THIS IS WHEN YOU PEE! IF YOU THINK YOU MIGHT HAVE TO PEE IN THE NEXT HOUR OR SO YOU SHOULD DO IT NOW!" when we do that crazy thing where we flash the lights and ring bells and shit to let you know that you have 5 minutes before the show starts.
Anyway, if you exit during a performance and you're seated at stage level, you are absolutely not getting back to your seat. It's written on your ticket. It's written on signs everywhere. It's logical, people. Stage level means what it says. The stage. Where actors enter and exit. In the fucking dark. Because it's safe to let you, some random stranger, wander around in there to go get your purse and knock down the professionals you paid to see.
Inevitably, people will bitch up a storm about this and we will remind them that it's written everywhere and then they will say "WELL! I will NEVER come HERE a-GAIN, sir!" and we'll roll our eyes because Bitch This Is Not A Target. If a show is playing here that you want to see, you will come back. Or go ahead and stick to your convictions, but you'll be missing out. Take your pick. We don't care. Someone will come in your place and hopefully not be as stupid and tacky as you are.
Since we're going in order, here's the link to the review I wrote about a porn-y gay comic book: http://prismcomics.org/display.php?id=2079
It's got all the naughty images blocked out, but some of my language is a little salty (surprise, surprise). I think it's a pretty good read, so you should go read it.
Now, about the paranoia/self-sabotagey business, I shall say this:
Even when one is in a really good, healthy, happy, trusting long-distance relationship, there still comes a time when you put your crazypants on and act a fool. This past week, I donned the crazypants. It was not my finest moment, but in my defense, I am supposed to find out any minute now if I got the job that will bring me and my wonderful long-distance beau together in the same city that I've been trying to move to for the past 5 years and moving/job stress + long work-filled weekend + distance = crazypants.
Rest assured, thanks to some good friends and some time to think, the crazypants have been taken completely off and have been given to Goodwill. AND I DIDN'T EVEN WASH THEM FIRST. BWAHAHAHAHAHAH.
This weekend consisted of:
-Dog-Sitting
-Working two double shifts at the second job
-Publishing a new review on prismcomics.org
-A healthy dose of paranoia and self-sabotage
My aunt/sista/bestie went with one of her childhood friends to visit another childhood friend in Baltimore, so my mom came and took her kid for a fun-filled sleepover while I got the dog, Nadia. Nadia and I go way back; we usually hang out when her family goes on vacation and generally speaking, she's adorable and bucketloads of fun. She's fond of stuffed toys which she promptly evicerates and prances around with. These are her Bo-Bos. She doesn't want you to actually play with them, she just wants to show you and then turn around and have you scratch her ass. You can pat her on the head; she will immediately turn around and rub her ass on you. Her single-mindedness and devotion to ass-rubbing is kind of admirable, in my opinion.
Between my staying over and partying with Nadia the dog, I worked front of house for four shows downtown at the theater, which, while time consuming, is basically a blast. The people I work with are just so incredibly fabulous and fun to hang out with that it's absolutely like getting paid to hang out with my friends. Plus, usually some patron does something idiotic and we can all laugh about it. Win-win! This weekend was even better because it was Tekkoshocon, the annual Pittsburgh Anime convention, so we got lots of fanciful wigs, glitter, leather, antennae, thigh-high boots, and assorted skanks in goth makeup with tiny outfits leaving breasts akimbo and ass cheeks a-flappin' in the breeze. And bedazzled trenchcoats. Never have I seen so many bedazzled trenchcoats.
I don't know if it's just a product of our culture or the times or whatever but it seems like when people purchase tickets for an event - and it could be anything: sports, a concert, poetry slam, whatever - they get this fucked up sense of entitlement like their entrance into the show allows them carte blanche to act like classless lunatics and behave contrary to the rules of both society and the establishment they're patronizing.
Where I work, we actually have a pretty liberal late seating and re-entrance policy. A lot of theaters around won't even let you in the door if you're late or get up to pee; we do. You might have to wait a minute and you'll likely have to sit in a different seat, but we'll get you in there. Shocking, I know, that we want you to get your money's worth and actually see the entire performance. Also, it'd probably be a little classless to shout "THIS IS WHEN YOU PEE! IF YOU THINK YOU MIGHT HAVE TO PEE IN THE NEXT HOUR OR SO YOU SHOULD DO IT NOW!" when we do that crazy thing where we flash the lights and ring bells and shit to let you know that you have 5 minutes before the show starts.
Anyway, if you exit during a performance and you're seated at stage level, you are absolutely not getting back to your seat. It's written on your ticket. It's written on signs everywhere. It's logical, people. Stage level means what it says. The stage. Where actors enter and exit. In the fucking dark. Because it's safe to let you, some random stranger, wander around in there to go get your purse and knock down the professionals you paid to see.
Inevitably, people will bitch up a storm about this and we will remind them that it's written everywhere and then they will say "WELL! I will NEVER come HERE a-GAIN, sir!" and we'll roll our eyes because Bitch This Is Not A Target. If a show is playing here that you want to see, you will come back. Or go ahead and stick to your convictions, but you'll be missing out. Take your pick. We don't care. Someone will come in your place and hopefully not be as stupid and tacky as you are.
Since we're going in order, here's the link to the review I wrote about a porn-y gay comic book: http://prismcomics.org/display.php?id=2079
It's got all the naughty images blocked out, but some of my language is a little salty (surprise, surprise). I think it's a pretty good read, so you should go read it.
Now, about the paranoia/self-sabotagey business, I shall say this:
Even when one is in a really good, healthy, happy, trusting long-distance relationship, there still comes a time when you put your crazypants on and act a fool. This past week, I donned the crazypants. It was not my finest moment, but in my defense, I am supposed to find out any minute now if I got the job that will bring me and my wonderful long-distance beau together in the same city that I've been trying to move to for the past 5 years and moving/job stress + long work-filled weekend + distance = crazypants.
Rest assured, thanks to some good friends and some time to think, the crazypants have been taken completely off and have been given to Goodwill. AND I DIDN'T EVEN WASH THEM FIRST. BWAHAHAHAHAHAH.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Cover Girl, Put The Bass In Your Walk, or, These Sensible Dress Shoes Were Made For Walking
Once or twice a week, someone says to me "Hey, you should write a blog." Or, "Hey, you should totally have a Twitter!" Or, "Hey, sometimes you say funny shit on Facebook that I approve of by clicking 'Like!' I would read more of this!"
Since I am far too long winded for Twitter and clearly there is a real need for me to branch out, here I am.
The office I'm working in at the moment has a ridiculous policy of forcing everyone to take hour lunches because of business hours and staffing and assorted bureaucratic whathaveyou. I, for one, certainly do not need an hour lunch. I can eat my sandwich/fruit/yogurt/salad/whatever in about 10-15 minutes. I do not want to nap on office furniture or play Angry Birds or hangout in the shitty beige breakroom. I want to take a 15 minute lunch and leave 45 minutes early. But that's not how shit goes down, corporate-style.
It's been unseasonably warm here in Pittsburgh (as are most places that are supposed to be an end-of-winter-angry-snow-shit-show in March) and I try, everyday, to walk as much as possible, in an effort to shed my "winter coat." Of fat. I mean... I'm not enormous and I maintain a relatively healthy diet, but I do generally live a pretty sedentary lifestyle and rather enjoy beer a lot. And by beer I don't mean anything bearing the word "lite," especially not when it follows the words "Bud" or "Miller" (unless if it's free, cause, in the words of my mom, "If it's free, it's fo' me!"). So, anyway, long story short (too late), I've got a belly, and the aforementioned inflated lunch hour affords me the opportunity to sort of power-walk that shit off.
There are three things that I find to be generally uncontrollable when I find myself traipsing through the city on break, two of which are direct results of listening to music. The music's usually something upbeat and appropriately 'gay', which, in turn, causes the first side effect: me stomping like a crazy diseased horse/drag queen/runway supermodel. I was told once, in grad school, that I have a very distinct walk even when I'm not working the metaphorical catwalk. Specifically, from the waist up, I was told I carry myself like "a mincing tailor," and from the waist down, I apparently walk like a construction worker. Apply that to the following scenario: me, clad in a shirt and tie, bopping through the streets of downtown Pittsburgh like I think I'm on America's Next Top Gay Power Walking Model.
Which brings me to the second thing that happens on my walks: I have to consciously stop myself from lip-synching and dancing. Mostly, I can just tone it down so it might look like I'm mumbling or cursing under my breath, but often, I will sell that shit like popcorn at the movies. I have choreographed spectacles running through my head at any given moment and, occasionally, I allow myself to shimmy, thrust, ball-change down the street, dramatically mouthing the words to whatever's on my iPod. I'm sure it's quite a sight.
The final thing that I can't control when I'm walking around on my ridiculously long lunch break? I judge people. I look at what they're wearing, where they're going, who they're with, and how they're acting. Like today? Fat guy on the bridge in the blue Power Rangers uniform t-shirt? I fully approve. Pregnant lady with homemade hand-and-foot tattoos standing outside the courthouse? I do NOT approve. All of the cretins in either booty shorts or muscle tees hanging out at CVS buying one thing at a time when I need to get back to work and seriously they should have a separate line for people who are just loitering and buying their 99-cent giant can of Arizona Tea and/or Fruit Beverage because me and the rest of the office bitches actually have to be somewhere doing things we get paid for? Those bitches? Not a fan.
I'll leave you with my playlist of sassy, gay-friendly, runway-ready tunes from today's excursion. I am not responsible if they turn you into a glitter-sweating, bitchfaced Liza impersonator like me on the subway
1. Alphabeat - Telephone/Bad Romance
2. Taylor Dayne - Tell It To My Heart
3. Sam Sparro - Happiness
4. Scissor Sisters vs. Krystal Pepsy - Shady Love
5. Kylie Minogue - Breathe (Tee's Freeze Mix)
6. Teena Marie - Square Biz
7. Alphabeat - Vacation
8. Girls Aloud - The Show
Since I am far too long winded for Twitter and clearly there is a real need for me to branch out, here I am.
The office I'm working in at the moment has a ridiculous policy of forcing everyone to take hour lunches because of business hours and staffing and assorted bureaucratic whathaveyou. I, for one, certainly do not need an hour lunch. I can eat my sandwich/fruit/yogurt/salad/whatever in about 10-15 minutes. I do not want to nap on office furniture or play Angry Birds or hangout in the shitty beige breakroom. I want to take a 15 minute lunch and leave 45 minutes early. But that's not how shit goes down, corporate-style.
It's been unseasonably warm here in Pittsburgh (as are most places that are supposed to be an end-of-winter-angry-snow-shit-show in March) and I try, everyday, to walk as much as possible, in an effort to shed my "winter coat." Of fat. I mean... I'm not enormous and I maintain a relatively healthy diet, but I do generally live a pretty sedentary lifestyle and rather enjoy beer a lot. And by beer I don't mean anything bearing the word "lite," especially not when it follows the words "Bud" or "Miller" (unless if it's free, cause, in the words of my mom, "If it's free, it's fo' me!"). So, anyway, long story short (too late), I've got a belly, and the aforementioned inflated lunch hour affords me the opportunity to sort of power-walk that shit off.
There are three things that I find to be generally uncontrollable when I find myself traipsing through the city on break, two of which are direct results of listening to music. The music's usually something upbeat and appropriately 'gay', which, in turn, causes the first side effect: me stomping like a crazy diseased horse/drag queen/runway supermodel. I was told once, in grad school, that I have a very distinct walk even when I'm not working the metaphorical catwalk. Specifically, from the waist up, I was told I carry myself like "a mincing tailor," and from the waist down, I apparently walk like a construction worker. Apply that to the following scenario: me, clad in a shirt and tie, bopping through the streets of downtown Pittsburgh like I think I'm on America's Next Top Gay Power Walking Model.
Which brings me to the second thing that happens on my walks: I have to consciously stop myself from lip-synching and dancing. Mostly, I can just tone it down so it might look like I'm mumbling or cursing under my breath, but often, I will sell that shit like popcorn at the movies. I have choreographed spectacles running through my head at any given moment and, occasionally, I allow myself to shimmy, thrust, ball-change down the street, dramatically mouthing the words to whatever's on my iPod. I'm sure it's quite a sight.
The final thing that I can't control when I'm walking around on my ridiculously long lunch break? I judge people. I look at what they're wearing, where they're going, who they're with, and how they're acting. Like today? Fat guy on the bridge in the blue Power Rangers uniform t-shirt? I fully approve. Pregnant lady with homemade hand-and-foot tattoos standing outside the courthouse? I do NOT approve. All of the cretins in either booty shorts or muscle tees hanging out at CVS buying one thing at a time when I need to get back to work and seriously they should have a separate line for people who are just loitering and buying their 99-cent giant can of Arizona Tea and/or Fruit Beverage because me and the rest of the office bitches actually have to be somewhere doing things we get paid for? Those bitches? Not a fan.
I'll leave you with my playlist of sassy, gay-friendly, runway-ready tunes from today's excursion. I am not responsible if they turn you into a glitter-sweating, bitchfaced Liza impersonator like me on the subway
1. Alphabeat - Telephone/Bad Romance
2. Taylor Dayne - Tell It To My Heart
3. Sam Sparro - Happiness
4. Scissor Sisters vs. Krystal Pepsy - Shady Love
5. Kylie Minogue - Breathe (Tee's Freeze Mix)
6. Teena Marie - Square Biz
7. Alphabeat - Vacation
8. Girls Aloud - The Show
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)