Since I’m spending the holiday alone in my food nest (“bed”), I’ll have a lot of time to answer your questions. So get the cake balls rolling and ask me anything. I know so much.
Why would you overcome your feelings? You can’t, so stop trying.
Accept the fact that you’re jealous and arrogant. That you’re confident and completely vulnerable. That you’re GREAT and a complete novice. Because you are all these things. And that’s never going to change.
What IS going to change is your acceptance of how you feel. Accept who you are and how you’re feeling. Then find the truth after that moment of acceptance. What is true after you admit you hate everyone else? Tweet from that place. Tweet from who that person is. You’re going to feel a great release from the bullshit you’re living in.
And don’t judge yourself for how you feel. Save that judgment for other people’s photos. Because they are horrible.
No, but she’s great as far as I can tell from her Twitter stream.
I rock a pink cat suit better than she does.
That’s not a criticism. It’s just a fact.
First, I love you and want to smack you in the face. This is my highest compliment.
Your characterization of the macarons sounds delicious and vaguely racist. I will pretend I didn’t hear what you said and change the subject back to me.
Did you know that one of my classmates in third grade always called me kumquat? I think that’s where my love of food started. #OriginStories
I went to Mom’s for lunch today.
She spent all day Saturday cooking for me. All of your favorites, she said.
I reminded her that I never liked her food and that I brought my own lunch.
What’s quinoa, she asked.
Nothing you would understand, Mom.
We spent the next 83 minutes not talking to each other about Dad.
Happy Father’s Day.
Because as much as I hate myself, I hated reading your fucking tweets more. You are insufferable. I am intolerable.
My life is so much richer with me in it.
Because I am a food blogger. And I say this shit.
And that’s why I started @shitfoodblogger in the first place.
One night, three weeks ago, I said something ridiculous to a close friend. It was something about my blog. Something about how I was frustrated and why wasn’t I blogging more and why didn’t I have more readers and why don’t marketing types approach me and why why why…and I got sick of myself and what I heard spewing out of my mouth.
This thing, this persona was never about you. It was always about me.
Every single post was about my self-doubt and self-loathing. Every single post was aimed directly at me.
SFBS was a mix of parody and satire aimed at my own inadequacies.
This wasn’t supposed to be funny. It was comedy. Those are very different things.
If you need more of a framework because it’s still not clicking, Google “The Harold.”
Sorry (sort of) if you were offended. I don’t know what to say except you’re apparently dealing with the same issues I am.
And if you thought I wasn’t mean enough…I really don’t know what to say. What the fuck is wrong with you? I guess I’d start there.
So this is the end.
Thanks for watching and playing.
Your oven is a projection of your inner demons.
It’s like getting high on mushrooms. If you’re not in a good place, if you haven’t dealt with shit, your high is going to make you see really bad things.
Things like your 8th birthday party when your mom said you couldn’t have cake because you were a little poofy.
Or you’ll see images of your website’s server crashing and you realized they never did back ups and you’ve lost your life’s work.
Or you’ll think you’re drowning in a vat of lard you rendered yourself when in fact you’re just hanging in your kiddie pool you filled with buttercream.
So get your shit together.
And tell yourself, “My oven doesn’t hate me. My mom does.”
Fuck you. I am watching Adele on YouTube and I am tearing up. I am so serious, I want to stab you.
I’m going to make cookie dough and watch this over and over and over.
These people are hoarders. The chair is their sacred place of cleanliness, a temple of calm in the midst of their sickness. Every other inch of their homes is covered in filth. This is not a joke.
Remember, lighting is critical to a great Instagram, but what you crop out of the frame is nearly as important. Whenever you see food on chairs, you know there are dead puppies crushed under boxes of encyclopedias just to the left of the chair.
No, it doesn’t. Portrayals of food bloggers as exasperating obsessives, emotionally crippled, and incapable of maintaining meaningful relationships with people when not online are uncalled for and not based in reality. #Tucci
No, as this would require me to update my business cards. Which I just had printed.
You are a horrible person.
sorry for typos - written on my iPhone while eating a cupcake!!!
I am confused. Why are you not milling your own grain? What kind of food blogger are you?
If you choose to act like a civilian (non-food blogger), then here’s how you do it…
- Grab your bag of KA flour.
- Hold it steady with one hand.
- With the other hand, grab a pair of scissors.
- Stab the flour bag. Fiercely. Repeatedly. Stab until all the flour comes pouring out on to the floor.
- Put down the scissors.
- Pick up your iPhone.
- Rev up the Instagram app.
- Take a picture of the flour that has dumped on the floor.
- Choose your fave filter.
- Upload it with the caption “My Empty Dreams!”
- Make sure to post on Twitter and Facebook.
I think bad thoughts about everyone, so I think this is fine.
But adorable words like adorbs are useful in defining yourself as younger and nicer than you are. Like my mom. If she used the word adorbs, people might think she wasn’t so fucking horrible.
- Chocolate heavy cream
- Blondies with chocolate sauce on top
- Smores (fuck you, apostrophe)
- Banana cream pie with chocolate wafer crust and chocolate sauce on top
- Chocolate chip cookies, warm, with a wire basket full of milk bottles filled with ice cold chocolate heavy cream
- Strawberries dipped in milk and dark chocolate
- That thing where you take an Oreo and shove it inside of something else and eat it
- Chocolate fudge
- A dessert pizza made with a chocolate brioche crust, chocolate creme, and chocolate whipped cream, served with a side of hot fudge for dipping
I’ll continue the list tomorrow.
Honestly, and this is hard for me to say…you’re not going to get huge. Not like me. Your blog isn’t different enough to make it stand out. That doesn’t mean it’s not good (it’s not good compared to mine, but whose is?).
Think about why you started blogging in the first place. What made you want to document your thoughts? Why did you post that first post? It probably wasn’t to get famous like me. It was probably to do something for yourself.
So do that. Do this blog thingy for yourself. Don’t put more weight on affirmation from social media sources than you do on nice comments from the people who enjoy you IRL. You’re not going to get famous, but your blog and your food and your pictures and your writing will help people get to know you more deeply.
And that’s probably better than being famous. Or so I have been told.
Doughnut is artisan. Donut actually tastes good.
Please see my previous comments on vagina parties.
First, I try not to talk a lot about my vagina on my blog. I’m sure yours is lovely, and mine is beautiful #MeyerLemonScent. But really, let’s keep a little mystery.
Now, on to this party. The perfect time to hit is about two days before everyone is thinking about it. If you want to set the trend, then two weeks prior to your party is ideal. If you want to gain the most traffic, then two days before the event is best. That’s when civilians (non-food bloggers) are thinking about. That also gives you two days to promote yourself on Twitter, hit Foodbuzz, try to figure out how the fuck to get your stuff on The Huffington Post, and submit to foodgawker (go fuck yourself).
If you missed the party, then be sure to do a recap the following day, and do a link round up. That will set you up as a post-taste-maker, which is pretty great.
So happy vagina party!!! Think about a really severe filter on Instagram for the post pics.