Mullets, Man Buns, Madonna

November 20, 2014 by carlyjohn 1 Comment

Many apologies for not being a diligent poster. I’m too busy riding my bike, reading “news” articles on Buzzfeed, watching music video, taking naps, and being a Peace Corps Volunteer. If you follow me on Instagram, which you should, you probably noticed I went to Bali. My dad thinks he’s hilarious and said, “nice mugshot, car” in regard to the #hungover #selfie I posted on the last day of the trip. That was the point dad! Bali is a magical place full of beef cake Australian men in tanks, board shorts, and flipflops. The beaches are gorg and I was able to get a plate! of! bacon! After a loooooong time without the meat of the gods, I ordered my own personal pile of pork and inhaled it the second I could. Numerous Beyonces/Chers/Madonnas/Harry Styles/all the divas performed a rendition of Hallelujah in my head as I licked the grease from my (probably) unwashed hands. I don’t even care that you’re all judging me right now.

That was just one of many truly spiritual moments. The most profound experience of my life occurred in a club when a Drag Queen performed a choreographed/lip synced song and dance routine to Madonna’s “Frozen”. Something about 90s Madonna just gets me emotionally (most likely because it reminds me of my older sisters) and her performance is something I will never forget. It came with real lit candles balancing on her palms and dramatic floor length sleeves. I distinctly remember yelling “The flourish with which you whip those sleeves!” at her as I attempted to follow her through the throng of Indonesian and foreign men who had no interest in me. The only way my night could have been better was if she had chosen to lip sync “Power of Goodbye” instead, but then I might have passed out on that crowded dance floor.

In more current and pressing news, as many of you read on FB, I now am werking a mullet. I was itching (literally and figuratively) to get a new do, but nothing drastic. Think Kendall Jenner with a side part. I just wanted some more layers and a short trim for my long beautiful brown healthy hair (I’m not being egotistical, just ~*~*nostalgic*~*~). I should have known better and there were many signs it was a baaaaaad idea.

First sign: I walked across the street and asked for the “stylist” at the “salon”, but she was taking a nap. This was my earliest chance to jump ship, but I stupidly didn’t listen to the higher being screaming at me from the heavens.

Second sign: The lady didn’t want to wash my long beautiful brown healthy MERMAID hair (once again, nostalgia) before cutting it?????????? I had to request to be taken to the sink, bent over, and partially drowned while she yelled at me about marriage and babies and indoor aerobic exercises.

Third sign: She had a cape, but didn’t think it was necessary for me to wear it. Let the gross sweaty white girl be even more gross and wet!

Fourth sign: She also didn’t think it was necessary to brush my hair, part it, section it, or ANYTHING really before she picked up a razor and just started hacking away at it like Hitchcock’s Psycho. Cue screeching music.

When I put my glasses back on (yes, I was blind for most of the horrific procedure), I wanted to cry and call all of my sisters so they could tell me what to do. This was made even worse when the stylist took her own hair down from its bedazzled scrunchy prison and said something along the lines of “Look, we have the same hair.” She’s in her 50s, I’m in my 20s … Let the deep dark depression ensue. She tried to do even more to my hair, but I essentially threw money at her and ran home, my rat tail mullet in a sick wet little ponytail that I imagine only truck drivers with CB radios have. T

he only positives about a mullet right now is washing my hair much less of an ordeal, I’m clean more often, and it’s much cooler temperature wise. Sometimes I like to think I’m fashioning myself after Kristen Stewart or other androgynous celebs on purpose just to make myself feel better. I should post a picture, but I have yet to take one and I don’t really want to. Maybe I will in the near future on Instagram when I can get someone to snap a pic. Sorry to be lame, but (Justin Timberlake voice) cry me a river.

The following will be random thoughts that have no real correlation to anything and probably aren’t even that interesting, but I’m obsessed so.

Kelly Rowland named her new son Titan Jewell. When I told my dear friend he said, “That’s weird, my dick has the same name!” (if you google “beyonce shadow” a picture of Kelly and Solange show up HILARIOUS)
Instagram keeps on suggesting I follow Gwyneth Pooptrow. -_____________- I’m annoyed about that.
I have a desperate need to follow celebrity children, especially those blessed with genes from two celeb parents. Most of my instagramming is spent looking for these children and being pissed at people, like Miranda Kerr, who refuse to appease me.
One Direction’s new album came out this week. Listen to it illegally or buy it! I don’t care! Just don’t feel the need to tell me all of your music elitist purist bullshit. If you really don’t feel the need to listen to a quality album from a successfulband, I suggest you turn the volume up on your public radio station that will inevitably have an old white man discussing ISIS, Ebola, and the GOP. Maybe there will be a distant clarinet tooting along.
I bought a pet bird. It doesn’t do much but back flips in huge cage I bought for it, but I’m entertained andtaking care of it gives me something to do for at least a few minutes a day. The most fun I have is looking for cicadas, beetles, and other huge bugs to give Abu-abu (bird’s name, grey in Bahasa Indonesia) and watching it torture the bugs for a while. I’m morbid! Love me!
I didn’t have a great time teaching yesterday, and my students in the last class could tell I was a bit down. On the count of three, they sang something like “LA LA LA WE LOVE CARLY, WE LOVE CARLY, WE LOVE CARLY LA LA LA!” to the tune of “London Bridges Falling Down”. Those weren’t the exact words, but they definitely repeated their love for me over and over and over again. Though that love maybe fictitious, it was incredibly sweet of them to sing me a little pick me up.
Harry has the most beautiful bun I’ve ever seen. I’m so enamored with this cute little non-binary trash ball angel. He also rocked some french braids. Swooooooooooooooooooooon.