Elyse introduces the world to Hester

Who is Hester?

Well, Hester just happens to be the greatest un-living person alive! She is a mannequin at the American Apparel a few blocks from my apartment and I love her. Why? Why does one love a sunset, a taco, or Phil Collins? Personally I don’t get Phil Collins, he makes my nipples weep, but my roommates get him, and they enjoy his su su sudio-ness and I forgive them for having horrible, horrible taste in music because sometimes the reason why you love something is completely subjective. Who’s to say what’s better than what? This is why I think music reviews are completely pointless.

I suppose the best way I can articulate my attraction towards Hester is because you just don’t see that many pregnant, hipster mannequins in your life. She’s like a unicorn in the Bermuda Triangle who can make Phil Collins songs sound un-annoying.

Though she is unique (if anyone else knows of any other pregnant hipster mannequins, please, let me know), Hester makes perfect sense. I happen to live in a Brooklyn neighborhood where I sincerely believe you can get knocked up if you inhale too deeply, which is hard, because there’s a lot of really good smelling bakeries. What I don’t get about Hester, and it’s the reason why I adore her, is the horrible outfits she is forced to wear. How can anyone defend outfits like this?:

Or this:

Who is she giving birth to? A character from "Saved by the Bell?"

Being pregnant is hard enough! I mean, I've never been, but according to my friend who is, she can’t eat goat cheese, drink booze, smoke cigarettes, or sumo wrestle. What’s life without sumo wrestling?! I’ll tell you what it is, it’s torture. It’s like listening to this for eternity:



These outfits are the visual equivalent to Phil Collins.

Elyse doesn’t write a blog post for a few weeks

Ta-da!

Elyse starts a blog

Hello. My name is Elyse. I am going to do stuff and you’re going to love it.

 Today, I did a lot of stuff. I went on a jog, saw this:

 And I got a blister! Score!

I also clipped my toenails, look!:

And they smell like the kind of cheese I can’t afford. Ironic? No. That is not even close to the definition of the word ironic. I am not Alanis Morissette. I don’t just make up the meaning to a word and then write a song about it and confuse people. But, if I were Alanis Morissette, I would have slept with Ryan Reynolds, been slimed on “You Can’t Do That on Television,” be Canadian, gone down on Dave Coulier in a thea-ter, married some guy named Souleye (my pet name for my butthole), have ten thousand spoons, need a knife, and this blog would be called “Alanis does stuff” and it’s not.

 Ironic?

No. But, here’s a picture of a poodle:

And another one:

And another one:

It’s not what you’d expect from poodles, is it? But angry, murderous, and near-sighted poodles are not ironic either. That’s just me messing with your expectations and being a jackass. And me calling myself a Jackass would be only be ironic if my name were Jenny, because that’s apparently the female equivalent of a male donkey. And my name’s not Jenny. It’s Elyse. And I’m going to do stuff SO HARD.

This blog will get better. I promise.