Do you wanna be on top?
I guess it’s no shocker that I love America’s Next Top Model. My boyfriend hates hates HATES that show, saying only that he can’t stand to see women judged so shallowly.
“But they’re metaphors,” I say. I tell him I watch it for the transformation. He says “Uh huh,” flatly, as if I’ve just told him I read Honcho for the motorcycles.
Anyway, Brandon’s gone to Texas just now, so I threw myself a big ol’ ANTM party: grilled quesadillas, homemade southwestern egg rolls, and a pitcher of margaritas. It’s a wonder I can spell just now.
I don’t think it was the alcohol that made me tear up when this girl won:
It’s like she can fly, slay the evil minions, and sell a big-belted dress and some strappy sandals–all in one fell swoop.
After that, I watched Project Runway, a show which is like televangelism for gays. Tonight’s episode began with a small tragedy: Jack quit the show to begin aggressive treatment for a MRSA infection. In. His. Nose.
I’ll spare you the google-images.