Dear Modern Hotel Bathroom Designers:

First, I'd like to congratulate you on your influence. Thanks to you, nearly every hotel that has ever dreamt of being regarded as "hip" and "chic" and "sleek" and "quotational" has remodeled its bathrooms in accordance with your trendsetting vision. And thanks to you, nearly every single one of those bathrooms now follows an open concept treatment of the shower: a wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling stone tiles fed by an overhead waterfall fixture and shielded with a little bitty strip of glass. Sort of like this:

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So, guys. I try not to be a blogger who's like, HEY WHAT'S UP NOT MUCH JUST THINGS YOU KNOW and then tosses in a few pictures and runs away. But that is exactly what is about to happen here. You have been forewarned.

Because, guys! I went to the hair salon today, and I think looking at angsty self-portraits from back when I had short hair really influenced me, because the first thing I did when I sat down in the stylist's chair was say, I HATE IT CHOP IT ALL OFF. Just like that. It's been a real capital-letters-and-no-punctuation kind of day, if you're wondering.

And so just like that, the hair was gone.

The first thing I did when I got home was announce to the beau, "I want to show all my internet friends!" Because apparently I have no actual in-person friends anymore. Congratulations, I have advanced to the next level of nerdom.

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"Did she just say she wants a juicehead gorilla?" the beau asked, in reference to Snooki.¹

"Yes. Yes, she did," I replied.

"Fucking Jersey. At least they have a place where they can congregate," he muttered.

Two years after everyone else first furrowed their brows and uttered WTF? at their television screens, we finally watched Jersey Shore for the first time. I told you I'm slow to adapt to pop culture. I will say this: that show boasts a very high number of people I would be horrified to actually meet in real life. Like, as in all of them. Clearly, I'm going to have to start recording it.

In much more timely news, I AM ON THE COVER OF THE FEBRUARY ISSUE OF ESQUIRE MAGAZINE!

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If only I had me a sharp knife.

If only I had me a sharp knife, I wouldn't have to go downstairs to the main kitchen at work to prep my food. Slicing tomatos, apples, avocados, rinsing lettuce — all that could be done up here on the second floor, at the semi-abandoned coffee bar near my desk.¹

And the most important part of not having to go down to the main kitchen for every single meal, of course, is that I wouldn't have to experience... my coworkers.

My coworkers are the bane of my existence. Coworkers? They come up to you in the main kitchen where you are minding your own damn business slicing up some vegetables, and they say things to you like: "WHATCHU EATAN FER LUNCH?" Oh, yeah. These people talk like that. Definitely in my grossly exaggerated imitations of them, they do. They talk weird and they are maybe 1.5 times the size and height of normal people and their features blend together into one lumpy mashed-potato-like mass and they probably inhale through their mouths. I don't know, I am usually too busy trying to desperately hold myself together to really notice.

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