Staunchly, vol. 55: Not in the Spirit of the Mission


Have you listened to the latest episode of Joint Didion yet? I really think we’re starting to find our groove. By that I mean: Lauren sounds cool and perfect as always and I finally appear to have gained some ground in the war against my lisp.
Speaking of mouths. I was at Larchmont Beauty Center this week, where I was tricked by capitalism and the Beauty Industrial Complex into buying $122 worth of products on a Tuesday morning. I was checking out when something caught my eye and my nostalgia: a small salmon-pink tube and the words Lip Venom.
Have you worn Lip Venom recently? It’s a very wild ride. It literally bubbles and pinches all the little pixels in your lip until they collectively acquiesce into something like a pout.  I wrote about Lip Venom before in the context of my history with lip-gloss and I don’t think I can come up with a better description for the precise look and sensation it produces (you can see I used past tense because I didn’t think I’d literally ever wear it again):
“It came in a vial protected by cardboard, so you knew it was the good shit. It promised you full, bee-stung, kinda porny lips. It tingled and plumped them—much like how, if you were to be fanged to death by a viper, your body would bloat with gas, swelling your features and popping out your tongue several days into decomposition.”
The only thing I could possibly add to that is that it makes your lips super goopy and wet, like if you went to third base with a jellyfish. It’s that good good Shape of Water look.
Anyways, so I bought Lip Venom this week. And I’ve been wearing it on and off. I think it popped a blood vessel in my lip. That’s sexy right?
Re: sexy. Rihanna’s lingerie line, Savage x Fenty, drops in 6 days. It is size-inclusive (moderately) and very hawt and I’m saving all my money for it because Rihanna apparently owns my whole body now from head to toe, and I’m not mad.
Other things I care about this week:
Babylon Berlin, a German Netflix show about vice and politics during the Weimar Republic that I’ve been binging. I’m only on episode four, but it’s already one of my favorite shows in a while. Also one of the cops looks a lot like my Grandpa Karl, but I think all white German men look alike, ya know?
The movie Death of Stalin, which is darkly hilarious and practically perfect except it puts the viewer in the unfortunate position of laughing at and along with Jeffrey Tambor, who appears to be spared from the strictest sanctions of the #MeToo movement. I hope this isn’t because the voices of transgender actresses are valued less than that of cis ones! That can’t be it, right?
Michelle Wolf’s perfectly brutal White House Correspondent’s Day set, which was packed to the brim with righteous feminist rage, and the WHCA’s pathetic, condescending response. I know being complicit in the rise of New York’s shadiest huckster to the highest position in the land is a tough pill for the media to swallow, but as Trump most definitely said to several pornstars across the great casinoscape of Lake Tahoe after very tender acts of copulation.  “I don’t care if you don’t want to. Swallow.” 
That’s it today, bbs. Just a short catch-up because I’m working on some updates to this here newsletter/blog/empire and mostly I have to catch up on Vanderpump Rules.
Have a lovely weekend!
Staunchly yours,