The Coquette turned 5 today!
So yeah, this happened. Half a damn decade. What the actual fuck.

The Coquette turned 5 today!

So yeah, this happened. Half a damn decade. What the actual fuck.

Dear Miley,
I know Dolly Parton is your godmother and all, but there’s a fine line between homage and outright plagiarism.
You should be horrified that this quote — the crown jewel in Dolly Parton’s collection of shit-kicking, self-deprecating one-liners — is attributed to you.
This kind of bullshit bubble-gum intertextuality reeks of a crass and transparent desperation. Furthermore, it should be stated that no matter how hard you try to position yourself as heir apparent to Dolly’s country-crossover diva legacy, you will never — I repeat never — be the next Dolly Parton.
Stick to the smirking, self-reflexive exploitation of teenage rebellion thing you’ve got going. It seems to be working just fine.
Yours with a wrecking ball,
The Coquette

Dear Miley,

I know Dolly Parton is your godmother and all, but there’s a fine line between homage and outright plagiarism.

You should be horrified that this quote — the crown jewel in Dolly Parton’s collection of shit-kicking, self-deprecating one-liners — is attributed to you.

This kind of bullshit bubble-gum intertextuality reeks of a crass and transparent desperation. Furthermore, it should be stated that no matter how hard you try to position yourself as heir apparent to Dolly’s country-crossover diva legacy, you will never — I repeat never — be the next Dolly Parton.

Stick to the smirking, self-reflexive exploitation of teenage rebellion thing you’ve got going. It seems to be working just fine.

Yours with a wrecking ball,

The Coquette

Today’s theme.

Today’s theme.

Coke Talk of the Morning

I just woke up from a vivid dream where Lindsay Lohan picked me up in a black Chevy Suburban. We both drove around a post-apocalyptic hellscape drinking coffee and patiently waiting our turn to rainbow mind-meld in preparation for battle with time-eaters from that one Steven King novel.

At one point, I had to jump out of the truck and rescue Shia LeBeouf before his downed airplane burst into flames. He sat comfortably in my lap in the front passenger seat like a napping toddler. It’s not that he was short. It’s more like he was 5/8 scale, a sort of miniature fighter pilot, still unconscious and wearing the exact same flight suit that George W. Bush wore for that aircraft carrier photo-op before his Mission Accomplished speech.

Anyway, Lindsay got jealous that I had a miniature Shia LeBeouf in my lap, and so she refused to rainbow mind-meld with me so we could continue our battle with the time-eaters. Instead, she pretended to spill her coffee, and I made a passive aggressive comment about her nails, despite the fact that the time-eaters were rapidly approaching and everything around us was being devoured into a haunted void of nothingness.

We sped away as fast as our Chevy Suburban could take us, all the while relaying back to central command that we weren’t engaging the enemy due to some petty drama over a boy. Central command wasn’t the least bit surprised.

Eventually, I awoke from this dream to find my television on mute and tuned to a Proactiv infomercial. It was oddly comforting. I actually laid there and watched it for quite some time without changing the channel or turning up the volume.

So yeah, I was supposed to go to the gym this morning, but instead I stayed in bed and dream journaled this stupid post.

Have a lovely day, everyone.

These two high-fashion porcelain figurines have really been throwing off a “Mary-Kate and Ashley of the House Targaryen” kind of vibe lately. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started accessorizing with miniature dragons.

These two high-fashion porcelain figurines have really been throwing off a “Mary-Kate and Ashley of the House Targaryen” kind of vibe lately. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started accessorizing with miniature dragons.

*69
These nails are in honor of Hatefuck Tuesday.

These nails are in honor of Hatefuck Tuesday.

Coke Talk of the Day

Hatefuck Tuesday went a little awry. Not in the typical manner — nobody’s feelings got hurt or anything. (Feelings? Who the fuck has feelings?) No, this bit of angry afternoon delight got dirty the old fashioned way — he knocked my period loose a few days early.

You see, this guy isn’t really an ex. He’s just some self-absorbed asshole I dated for a hot minute longer than I otherwise would because he happens to have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen in my life.

I’m not a size queen, but even I appreciate the novelty of a cock that cartoonishly large. Truly, it is a fearsome thing to behold. It’s so big, every time he sticks it in it’s like getting fisted by Peter Dinklage.

Don’t ask me for exact dimensions. I don’t know them. I would never ask a big dicked man for his measurements in the same way I would never ask a famous person for an autograph. That’s a basic bitch move, and egos like that don’t deserve the satisfaction.

Anyways, he pounded me bloody. It’s like my cervix went three rounds with Mike Tyson. I completely ruined his sheets, which I consider an added bonus, because afterwards I just got up and left while he had to deal with cleaning up a crime scene.

It was glorious. I left my mark in every way possible, didn’t even say goodbye, and then drove through In-N-Out for a little hatefuck afterglow animal style indulgence.

Not a bad way to spend a lunch hour.

Dante’s Inferno: LA Edition

If Los Angeles were depicted as nine circles of suffering, here’s a tentative list of how I would organize the damned souls in the underworld:

First Circle (Limbo):
Van tour tourists, people who stand in line at nightclubs, and actors

Second Circle (Lust):
Guys who sit in the back row at yoga classes

Third Circle (Gluttony):
Foodies who post their meals on Instagram and casual acquaintances who like to talk about their twelve-step programs

Fourth Circle (Greed):
Every asshole who’s ever taken up two parking spots

Fifth Circle (Wrath):
Dumbfucks who refuse to turn right on red

Sixth Circle (Heresy):
Unreliable drug dealers and friends who live in the Valley

Seventh Circle (Violence):
Outer Ring: Spin class instructors
Middle Ring: Paparazzi
Inner Ring: The LAPD

Eighth Circle (Fraud):
Level 1: Vegans
Level 2: Promoters
Level 3: Anyone with a slash in their title
Level 4: Trust fund hipsters
Level 5: Development executives
Level 6: Dudes who call themselves producers
Level 7: Actual producers
Level 8: Publicists
Level 9: Celebrities
Level 10: Scientologists

Ninth Circle (Treachery):
The Parking Enforcement Bureau

And in the very center of Hell:
Donald Sterling, condemned for committing the ultimate sin. (For now, of course. Los Angeles has a fresh Satan every month.)

Holy fucking shit, you guys. I’m currently in Salt Lake City on a layover. Here’s what Tinder looks like in Mormon country.
(There is so much comedic gold lurking in that app. As someone who travels a lot, I love what Tinder reveals to me about mating rituals from region to region. It’s like some grand and ridiculous sociological experiment with the potential to reward me with either good sex or great stories.)

Holy fucking shit, you guys. I’m currently in Salt Lake City on a layover. Here’s what Tinder looks like in Mormon country.

(There is so much comedic gold lurking in that app. As someone who travels a lot, I love what Tinder reveals to me about mating rituals from region to region. It’s like some grand and ridiculous sociological experiment with the potential to reward me with either good sex or great stories.)

*50

"Someone once told me, time is a flat circle. Everything we’ve ever done, or will do, we’re gonna do over and over and over again."

Never has that felt more true than at Coachella.

Coachella Talk of the Day

  • Hot shit outfits *check*
  • Cute bikini situation *check*
  • Comfortable boots *check*
  • Good luck sandals *check*
  • Sunglasses I can’t lose *check*
  • Sunglasses I can lose *check*
  • All the drugs *check*
  • All-access wristband *check*


My ride gets here in 20 minutes. This is better than Christmas morning.

*81
Happy Coachella, motherfuckers.

Happy Coachella, motherfuckers.