Surprise Stud: Jason Mraz

From listening to him speak, you would think that Jason Mraz was a quintessential over-emotional, my-guitar-communicates-my-pain, I’ve-dated-Taylor-Swift musician. He sounds like he voluntarily reads bedtime stories to terminally ill children every Wednesday night and has three pet Dollface Persian Kittens.  

This sweet and smooth voice is very deceiving.

The guy is a freak.

We’ve all listened to his radio hits and just thought they were poppy little songs showcasing Mraz’s impeccable diction. False. They are so effing sexual. “I can save you from unoriginal dum-dums/Who wouldn't care if you com...plete them or not”? “I'm yearning to turn you on/I've been working on getting you off, so get on board”? Jason Mraz isn’t a virgin?! This is worse than when I found out Jason the Red Ranger became a porn star.

When he’s not banging hot chicks, we’d all like to believe that Mraz was planting peonies in his garden. If by “peonies” we meant “marijuana,” we’d be right. He’s a huge pothead! In 2009, he marched to “Free the Weed” and has been quoted as saying, “Pot laws are ridiculous.” He’s even been arrested for possession! What?! I guess this explains his laid-back vibe and brings a whole new meaning to his song “Live High.”

He first premiered on the scene with “The Remedy” and basically looked like every half-cool college guy with an ironic t-shirt who got his hair trimmed every six weeks. Now, he’s coming at us with Jesus hair, hippie beanies, and an array of philanthropic work that makes Dave Matthews look like Hitler. His scruffy man-beard is a thing of beauty. I have to congratulate Mr. A to Z on keeping up appearances for so long, because it’s quite obvious that now that he’s achieved repeated success, he’s going for the gusto and letting it all hang out. I can’t knock him for being a bit of a manwhore or being a fan of the ganja, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t all take me by surprise. For some reason, I expect these things out of John Mayer…but then again, he is THE quintessential over-emotional, my-guitar-communicates-my-pain, I’ve-dated-Taylor-Swift musician. Score one for Jason. 

Frienemies

Technical Difficulties

I am a bad computer mommy.

To whom it may concern: I have not/will not/cannot be posting as much hilarious stuff for your reading pleasure in the next few weeks because Wanda, my laptop, has kicked the bucket.

This probably could've been prevented.
- When her battery started to go and she needed to be constantly plugged in, I simply scoped out every outlet in a 2-mile radius and kept on keeping on.
- When I incurred second-degree burns on my thighs while Facebooking in bed, I should've realized that her fan was working overtime and that she needed to see the IT doctor in order to fix her fever.
- When my speakers went silent and I could no longer blast Christina Aguilera Pandora at 100-level volume, I cheated on Wanda by getting my "Dirrty" fix through Nadine, my phone.
- When she warned me with a random shut-down, I let her have her space for about an hour, only to turn her on again and have her work for me like nothing happened. I am a slut (to be fair, so is she).
- When she died for good, she made sure I felt the error of my ways by doing so on the day that I had two huge interviews to conduct that required e-mail correspondence and audio transcription.

For all of this, I am deeply ashamed and inexplicably sorry.

So this is just a case of too little too late. I'm also broke as a joke and will probably sell my kidney, eggs, and blood plasma simultaneously in order to rack up some funds to buy a new Wanda. Of course, I'll pick a new name, because the memories will just be too painful.

R.I.P. Wanda H. Packard. You were a good piece of machinery. Thank you for never judging my lack of tech-savvy, ignoring the crumbs in the keyboard, and keeping just how often I actually YouTube scenes from "Best in Show" on the downlow. 

Thrust into the Real World: Month 1

It would be wonderful if I could tell you that, since graduating on May 12, I had secured my dream job and was moving to Boston to become a successful twenty-something with a fabulous loft apartment and a newfound taste for Chai Tea lattes.

This could probably not be more false.

Instead, my entrance into the real world has consisted of downloading a weight loss app, riding a mechanical bull, and buying a pair of wedges on mega clearance ($70 down to $17, I’m still not over it). My one saving grace is the fact that my name has finally been printed in the magazine I’m interning for, and even with that I’m trying not to overanalyze just how much of an asset they consider me to be after listing my name last out of all interns (alphabetizing be damned).

Is this how it’s supposed to be?

Is it still acceptable that I’m eating Ramen and canned tuna and considering them both to be balanced meals?

Isn’t my resume magically supposed to be overflowing with achievements and valuable experience by now?

Aren’t I supposed to be discovered by some Hollywood agent who sees promise in my mildly offensive humor and ignores my lack of acting experience, making me the new long-lost cousin on Modern Family?

When exactly do I have to stop taking satisfaction in passive aggressive Facebook status fights between couples?

What the hell is this whole “adulthood” bullshit?

I did not spend four years of my life Sparknotesing Shakespeare just to learn that half of the apartments advertised on Craigslist are actually in the ghetto and that coin laundry is not, in fact, a thing of the past. Getting frustrated with the whole apartment-search experience has, however, led me to my newest hobby/obsession: Craigslist personals ads, specifically Men Seeking Trannies. But I digress.

Hopefully, I’ll find a job sometime in the near future that does not require me to ask “Are you looking for jeans today?” or “Would you like the receipt with you or in the bag?” Until then, I just hope that at least a few other post-grad lives out there look as bleak and unassuming as mine. Now if you’ll excuse me, One Day is on HBO for the twelfth time in the past three weeks and I’d like to go criticize Anne Hathaway’s debatably “British” accent.