It all started with a dead hooker. Or, more accurately, it all started when I was accidentally pretending to be a dead hooker, but that’s basically the same thing.

If you’ve never been so hungover in Las Vegas that you collapse across a bed with your dress hiked up to your stomach while surrounded by those nude girl cards they throw at you all over The Strip, then I supposed you probably can’t relate to how much this scenario makes you look like a dead hooker. But, take it from Jamie who walked out of the shower and found me in that pathetic situation during BiSC 2010, because she’ll tell you that that’s exactly what I looked like.

She’ll also tell you that, somehow, I managed to spend the rest of the night playing a self-titled game of 007 tag throughout the Flamingo, which consisted of hiding, chasing people with my fingers formed into the shape of a gun, yelling “DEAD HOOKER 007!” and trying to get two security guards to fake arrest me in exchange for my stealing a room service cart.

When we got home from Vegas, Jamie sent me an email that read, “LOOK WHAT I MADE FOR YOU,” and attached to the email was this iPhone wallpaper:

A personalized iPhone wallpaper to commemorate my dead hooker shenanigans? It was the best day.

After that, we started coming up with more ideas for iPhone wallpapers (holidays! favorite quotes! pretty design!), turning our phones into little pieces of tech-art, until one night we realized that, hey, there should be an app for that.

We started with the research. Sure, there were a few other apps for iPhone backgrounds, but none that offered that sweet spot between quality, personality, and overall gorgeousness that we aim for with each Shatterboxx creation.

So we set out to create our own.

Now, almost a year later, we’re finally on the cusp of launching Paper’d, the app that gives you unlimited access to an ever-changing gallery of 200+ professionally designed, high-quality wallpapers that are super easy to install and totally at your fingertips.

The app won’t be released until later this summer, but all of the pre-release information (including a sneak peek at some of the wallpapers!) is already available at paperdapp.com. Once you click over, you’ll also be able to join our email list to make sure you’re the first to know when the app is available for purchase, because hey, who doesn’t love being the first to know about the next amazing thing?

While we work obsessively at putting the finishing touches on an app we hope you’ll love as much as we do, it would be great if you could help us spread the word. Our little app needs wings, and I have a feeling that you fantastically badass people  are just the ones to help it take flight.

If you’ve been in contact with me in any way lately, you know that The Crazy Month has arrived. The month where all the things are happening at the exact same time and I’m constantly trying to remind myself to fucking BREATHE while I perform nose dive after nose dive into the depths of my to-do lists. It’s reached the point where I should probably just write “Breathe, asshole” on the top of each of the aforementioned eleventy thousand lists, but hey, let’s be realistic, that’s just one more thing I clearly won’t remember to do.

Let’s start with the end of the month, when James Bond and I are packing up and moving down to LA. On one hand, this makes me all, “YAY! THE BEACH!” but on the other hand, it makes me all, “HOW DO I PACK AND MOVE ALL THESE THINGS?! MUST HIDE FEARFULLY IN THE CLOSET FOR A HUNDRED HOURS UNTIL THE MOVING FAIRY COMES TO MY RESCUE.”

So there’s the packing and the moving. Not to mention the finding of the apartment, because oh, by the by, we’re moving in less than a month and we don’t have a place to live yet. Yay! But even before all of that there’s Bloggers in Sin City, where it’ll be four days of drinking vodka and rolling around in glitter with 56 other bloggers, which, yes, is definitely cause for belligerent excitement, but being the person in charge of the entire event also makes for a rabbit-style litter of to-do lists all its own. (Wait, do rabbits have litters? Or is that kittens? Maybe it’s both? Fuck, I DON’T KNOW HOW SMALL FURRY ANIMALS REPRODUCE.)

Rabbit sex research. Vegas. Apartment hunting. Moving. Making time for one last of everything I love in San Francisco (Hi, morning bun from Tartine Bakery!) And also (also!) there’s the explosive glory of having just (today!) launched the much toiled-over redesign of the Shatterboxx website, which includes the addition of our brand new BoxxBlog, a online catalog of all of mine and Jamie’s designgasm obsessions. Which is to say that 1) You should totally subscribe to the BoxxBlog and 2) You should totally send me some Xanax for this month, or some caffeine, or both.

Definitely both.

Last Sunday was the end of an era: Jamie moved out.

She’s spending the holidays at home with her family before tragically abandoning me leaving for Europe, where I’m pretty sure her main goal will be to find out if everyone in Spain looks like Javier Bardem.

Who could blame her though? That’s a pretty delicious goal.

Living alone again is strange. I did it once, not too long ago, for about a year, and I can honestly say that I was stranger that year than at any other period in my life. Spending that much time by myself just caused me to do bizarre things; I ate combinations of food that I’d never eat with other people around, I developed habits that weren’t okay by any socially appropriate standard, and, weirdest of all, I started talking to myself and all of the inanimate objects in the apartment. Not just here and there, but all the time, full-on conversations. Debates with the TV, dialogues with the faucet – and I mean, who does things like that?

Granted, this was also during a time when I drank more wine than water and slept only a few hours per night (at most) and abused caffeine all day (correlation?), so the strangeness might have had more to do with the fact that I was explosively sleep deprived and constantly drunk than with the aloneness of it all. But, you know, the chicken or the egg, right?

Last night, I noticed myself doing the conversation with objects thing again, and even though I’ve only been living alone for four days I assume I’m now just a short fall down the rabbit hole away from full-fledged crazy.

It all started with the green beans. After eating mint chocolate covered marshmallows for dinner (adulthood!), I decided I should attempt to ward off scurvy by making myself a plate of vegetables. I opened the freezer and went to get the green beans from the back, when something tumbled out and onto the floor.

(Warning, I’m about to talk about the potential benefits of sticking garlic up your vagina.)

I looked down at the floor and saw the frozen tampon applicator that had been in the freezer for a few weeks, the one I filled with a paste of yogurt and minced garlic after reading on a variety of homeopathic websites that, when inserted into the body, these two foods can help cure things. You know, things. So I made the paste, or rather, I asked Jamie to “please mince the garlic for my vagina” while laughing hysterically, but then wound up doing it myself because she was grossed out and I felt bad. I put it in the freezer with plans to use it the next day, but by the next day I was actually feeling much better and never needed it.

Which is when I should have thrown it out, right? But I didn’t. I mean, mincing garlic, mixing it with yogurt, and carefully scooping it into an empty tampon applicator isn’t the easiest task in the world, so I figured I’d just save it in case I needed it again. After it fell on the floor last night though, I realized that it’s probably terrible juju to keep something like that around in case I get an infection. Isn’t that, like, tempting genital fate? So I threw it out, but not before absentmindedly talking to it and asking it to please keep its bad juju far away from my vagina, a conversation that later expanded to include me actually talking directly to my vagina and instructing it to launch its Go-Go Gadget immune powers.

God, four days alone and I’m already a complete freak. Good luck and high fives and bear hugs to the next person who has to live with me.

Also, yes, I know that vaginas don’t have their own immune systems. I also know that technically it’s “vulva” and not “vagina” but it’s also technically “photocopy” and not “Xerox” because Xerox is a brand that has just become synonymous with photocopy, like Kleenex and tissues, and no I’m not saying that my vagina is a brand but holy fuck it should be.

I wonder if I could trademark my vagina.

I’m not sure what the moral of this story is, but I’m almost positive that it has something to do with the fact that I’m probably as narcissistic as Tommy Hilfiger and therefore I need to get my own headshots taken.

It all started on Facebook. Jamie comes into the kitchen last night and she’s all, “Third Eye Blind is doing a random middle of the day concert in Union Square tomorrow!!” I look at her and I’m like, “I love Third Eye Blind!” and she’s all, “Same!” and I’m like, “Wait, Third Eye Blind is still together?” and she’s all, “Um, YES” and I’m like, “Huh” and she’s all, “And they’re giving away ten pairs of tickets on Facebook!” and I’m like, “Cool?”

And then she actually won.

We took the bus over there this afternoon, no idea what we were getting into, and then all of the sudden we learned that it’s not just a Third Eye Blind concert, it’s a collaborative event with Macy’s that’s being co-hosted by Tommy Hilfiger. Oh, and by the by, we were VIPs and would we like to come over here and wait in this line to meet the band? YES WE’D LIKE TO MEET THE BAND.

God, in another life I would have been a phenomenal groupie slut.

Waiting in line, we kept looking at each other and marveling at the overwhelming randomness of the day. “Remember when you won tickets to a Third Eye Blind concert on Facebook and now we’re waiting in a line on the third floor of Macy’s to meet them? What is our life?”

A little while later, the band came out to meet us and autograph CDs. You know who else came out? Tommy Hilfiger. And do you know what he did? He sat there, next to the band, and signed glossy 8 x 10 headshots. OF HIMSELF. Now listen, I get why certain people have headshots taken. If you’re an actor or a model or anything in this general category, it makes total sense. But Tommy Hilfiger? What the actual fuck is anyone going to do with an autographed headshot of Tommy Hilfiger?

Going through the line, Jamie and I were hysterical. Finally, we got up to the table where the five of them were sitting and we’re getting our CD signed and Jamie’s shaking hands with Stephan Jenkins and I’m telling him that this is the most random day of my life and he looks up at me and goes, “Everyday should be totally random” and I’m all, NEW LIFE MOTTO. Also, did you know that even while awkwardly wearing sunglasses inside, Stephan Jenkins is hot? Like, hot. Do you know who else was hot? The models standing around in Tommy Hilfiger clothes during the entire event that were silently all, “Look how pretty and all-American we are. Oh this football? We’re just going to toss it around in front of the cameras for a bit. Take a look at our blazers, we’re very sophisticated. We could be Yale students. Very rich Yale students named Brandon something something the third with little black books and not-so-quiet coke habits.”

Those kinds of models.

Apparently, the entire concert was to introduce some kind of partnership between Tommy (what’s up first name basis!) and Third Eye Blind. Some poverty initiative. I think? With models? Fuck, I’m a terrible listener when there are hot models and musicians around.

The concert was great though, except now Jamie and I each have an autographed copy of Ursa Major and an autographed photo of Tommy Hilfiger and really, we don’t need these things. Does anyone need these things? I don’t know, but I’m giving them away. Please tell me that someone out there wants to receive these two items in the mail. Or that two someones want to receive these two items in the mail, since Jamie and I are both giving our autographed shit away. I also have a few kaleidoscopes* laying around if you want those too. Well, the kaleidoscopes aren’t technically mine, but they’ve been laying around James Bond’s apartment for long enough that I’ve decided he doesn’t want them. Don’t worry, I checked the fine print of the blogosphere and it states that if you’re dating a blogger and you leave items unattended in your apartment for too long, they’ll be packed up with a Tommy Hilfiger headshot and given away on the internet. True story.

*Holy shit, I spelled kaleidoscopes right on the first try. I win at life.

[Prize winner update: Arielle! And Lynsey!]

Since arriving in Chicago on Wednesday evening I’ve learned two things. First, I’ve learned that I need to make an obscene amount of money because staying in supremely nice hotels > staying in shit hotels. Second, I’ve learned that being pretentious about not owning a TV doesn’t in any way beat actually being able to watch TV.

In the past 8 months, I’ve somehow managed to forget how fucking amazing TV is. Like, did you know that there’s always something you can watch? How did I forget this?! How did I ever become one of those obnoxious people who’s all, “Watching shows on Hulu is soooo much better” when in fact, it’s not better. It’s not better at all. Do you know what’s better? The Food Network. And HBO! And the Travel Channel! And mindless fluff about which purses celebrities are carrying and the scoop on the latest colors for fall.

There’s just so much to learn on TV! Last night, we got sucked into an episode of Real Sex that went behind the scenes on an underwater porn producer, a glass sex toy manufacturer, a woman with the longest tongue I’ve ever seen, and a voyeur house where eight girls spend their entire lives naked, on camera, for a 24/7 online audience. It’s fascinating, isn’t it? The things people are doing that we never think could be part of our daily lives.

We watched how wheels of Gouda cheese are made. We followed along with a late-night special on yoga for arthritic people. We saw the unbelievable amount of ridiculous items one can buy via infomercials. And then, well, and then we decided to buy a TV when we get back to San Francisco.

Did you hear that? WE’RE GETTING A TV.

Mom: This means you can now call me directly following each Grey’s Anatomy episode to discuss your feelings on Mc-whoever without me shushing you and reminding you that I won’t be able to watch it until the next day.

Dad: This means nothing because I’m still not going to watch old Western movies.

Grandpa: This means that even though you hate everyone on the news and everyone in the government and generally everyone ever, at least we can now discuss the few televised events you do enjoy, like the World Series and anything about guns.

Everyone else: This means that I’m working on replacing my caffeine addiction with TV addiction because addiction is fun, caffeine is bad for my insomnia, and TV is good for my happiness. So, I’ll be testing out the placebo effect of herbal tea during the day and the actual effect of vodka at night because vodka is better for sleep than caffeine and TV is better than no TV and drunk TV is better than sober TV and holy hell I’ve now typed “TV” so many times that it has totally lost meaning.

Happy Friday! Do something nice for yourself this weekend. Go out and buy one of those giant cinnamon rolls and eat it while watching 16 hours of uninterrupted TV. We can meet back here on Monday to discuss the wondrous glory of cream cheese frosting and the latest shenanigans of Dora the Explorer.

In the past week I’ve done so many Real Adult things that I’m not entirely sure I recognize myself anymore.

First, I bought skincare products. Like actual super high quality spendy face stuff to replace whatever I was using from the drug store that made it so my skin couldn’t decide if it was oily or dry or normal or iguana.

Second, I bought a bed. As in, I’m no longer sleeping on an air mattress on the floor. I have a box spring and a mattress and a pillowtop thing that goes on top of the mattress and sheets and a duvet and a duvet cover and pillows and and and THIS THE BEST DAY!

If you know me, you know how big of deal this is since I’ve spent the past two years sleeping on an air mattress. (I know right?!?)

It wasn’t like I planned it. It wasn’t like I woke up one day and was all, “You know what would be the best of the best? If I spent the next two years sleeping on the fucking floor.” No. This, like most other eyebrow-raising things in my life, just sort of happened.

I first bought the air mattress in June of 2008, when the woman I was renting a room from called to tell me that in fact, she wasn’t allowed to rent the room to begin with and that if I wasn’t out by the next afternoon, her and her children would be evicted.  I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I went with the only thing I could think of at the time: buying an air mattress and sleeping on the floor of my office.

This was back when I ran a children’s summer day camp, and apparently being homeless and sleeping in one’s office isn’t exactly smiled upon when you’re in charge of young children. So I went from my office to a friend’s house, and then from the friend’s house to my own small apartment, but even as I settled into my new place I knew I wouldn’t be staying long enough to invest in furniture, especially since the place was mostly furnished already.

So I slept on the floor and told everyone who asked that it was “fine!” and “fun!” and “sort of like a continual slumber party!” Which, for the record, was a big fat horse vagina lie. Not fine. Not fun. Not anything like a slumber party. I mean, imagine having all of your sex on an air mattress on the floor.

Exactly.

I left that apartment at the same time I left that job, and I took off from Southern California to my parents’ apartment in Arizona, and then from there to floors and couches all over the country during my three months of girl gone nomad-ing last fall. The tail end of the traveling brought me to San Francisco (air mattress in tow), and 8 months later here I am, splitting a one-bedroom apartment with Jamie, living behind two folding screens in the living room, but finally the owner of an actual bought-it-from-IKEA bed.

Finally. Fuck.

And on one hand, I’m all, “Yay! I win! Life’s too short to sleep on the floor!” but on the other hand I’m like, “Gah! Too many Real Adult things at once! Who am I! Whiplash!”

But then I look out my “bedroom” window and see the ball pit on the patio and remind myself that a) I still have a very long way to go before reaching full blown Real-Adult-ness and 2) Tequila solves everything.

Whoever says money can’t buy happiness needs to order an inflatable swimming pool and 500 multi-colored ball pit balls and then get back to me.

Nothing about this is practical. We have a fucking ball pit on our patio. But you know what? Practicality is overrated. You know what else? I think you should go out and do one ridiculous thing this week that gives you the kind of ecstasy-inducing heart boner that my ball pit gives me.

Dye your hair. Eat dessert for breakfast. Paint your ceiling blue. Take totally risqué photos of yourself for absolutely no reason. Buy ten pairs of hot pink underwear. Just do something, anything, that makes you feel exhilarated.

What the hell is the point of life if we’re not routinely making people question our sanity while we swim around in ball pits?

Big high fives to Jeremy, Norcross, and Lauren for coming over and blowing the pool up. Big high fives to James Bond for covertly filming this video clip and for smacking my ass in the middle of it. Big high fives to Jamie for putting up with me even though I secretly ordered 500 balls to our apartment and then pouted like a child when she wouldn’t agree to sell the couch so we could put the ball pit in its place. Big high fives to The Bloggess and her red dress for inspiring this post. And biggest ever high fives to anyone who chooses wild and irrational happiness over all of the other options.

(Also, yes, I know we need more balls. We’re getting more balls. Never enough balls. That’s what she said! That’s what I said! These jokes are too easy! BALLS!)

As part of my ever-growing collection of sex toys, I’m proud to announce that I now own one that looks like a bunny. Well, not an actual bunny. Not like with a cute little bunny face. I wouldn’t touch myself with a cute little bunny face. Or an ugly little bunny face. Or any little bunny face.

Shit, this is off to a horrible start.

A few months ago, Jamie and I went on a tour of the Babeland warehouse for no other reason than the fact that if someone asks if you’d like to tour their warehouse full of sex toys, you say yes.

(That’s piece of advice number one.)

Our favorite part of the tour was the library, or more accurately “The Room Where Every Sex Toy You’ve Ever Imagined Is Displayed To Look At And Play With But No Not Like That You Weirdo It’s A Warehouse Not A Brothel.”

It was in this library (or “TRWESTYEIIDTLAAPWBNNLTYWIAWNAB”) that I first learned about Jimmyjane, a premium sex toy company that I somehow hadn’t heard about in my years of superior vaginaness. I saw their shelf of gorgeous toys and was all, “Ooo” and the Babeland girl was like, “I know right?!” and I was all, “Wait, what the fuck is that?” and she was like, “That’s the Form 2” and I was all, “It looks like bunny ears” and she’s like “It’s one of my favorite toys, would you like one?”

(Piece of advice number two: when a woman who works at a sex toy warehouse asks if you’d like one of her absolute favorite toys, you nod quickly and do a little vagina dance.)

Back at home, I realized why it’s her favorite. The bunny ears sit on either side of everything you want vibrated and the five different modes actually do all feel completely different. Also, it’s waterproof. Also, the ears are flexible. Also, it runs for 7+ hours on a full charge. Also, the manual offers a variety of helpful tips such as, “Do not use on unexplained calf pain” and “Close supervision is necessary when this product is used by, on, or near children, invalids, or disabled persons.”

Which is to say, please comment for a chance to win one of these orgasm ears for yourself, but maybe don’t enter if you routinely masturbate by, on, or near children. Or if you plan to rub your new toy up against your unexplained calf pain.

Although if you have unexplained calf pain that’s bad enough that your last resort is to try to masturbate it, you should probably see a doctor. And if you do the thing with the children and the invalids, you should probably see someone else entirely. And if you want to double your chances for orgasmic goodness while sitting in open-mouthed disbelief at a product you never ever thought would actually exist, you should probably check out this other giveaway for a $2,750 vibrator. Yes, for real. Yes, it’s 24k gold, has 28 diamonds in it, and costs $2,750.

And like, on one hand there are people in the world with no clean water and I can’t believe I’m fantasizing about using a vibrator that costs more than my monthly rent, car payment, utilities, and student loans put together, but on the other hand CAN YOU IMAGINE GETTING OFF TO AN ALMOST THREE THOUSAND DOLLAR VIBRATOR? I seriously can’t think of anything more expensive that I’d like to put in my vagina so if you win and I don’t I’ll obviously pretend to be happy for you, but my clit is going to be pretty fucking angry.

And now an ending filled with adorable bunnies:

{Update: the random integer generator picked comment #51. Happy bunny orgasms to Sarah!}

This morning I woke up with the kind of hangover that makes me seriously weigh the pain of getting up to walk to the bathroom against the horror of wetting the bed.

I made it to the bathroom, but let’s start at the beginning.

San Francisco is, without question, the strangest city I’ve ever lived in. Which is surprising, because after 10+ years of living in New York I really did think that I had seen it all. The thing about San Francisco though, is that the crazy is brazenly out in the open. It’s proud of itself. It’s that guy who body checks you in the middle of the street and that guy a few blocks down who tells you that you have a beautiful smile, even though your mouth is closed, followed by a declaration of how he’d like to eat your hair.

This city seems to sanction its crazy, hosting street festival after street festival, continuously giving its residents a reason to be drunk outside in the middle of the day. That’s another thing about San Francisco, it’s a city full of lushes. Jamie and I were talking about this the other day, about how we don’t fit into any of the overt San Francisco cliches (gay, pretentious, hipster, gay pretentious hipster, etc.), but we do fit the quieter mold of likes-to-drink-heavily-for-no-reason-at-all-other-than-the-fact-that-it’s-a-Tuesday-and-wine-is-better-than-no-wine.

So, being that yesterday was a Tuesday, we figured we’d partake. We bought our Two Buck Chuck and did the thing where I sit on the barstool and she stands across the counter from me and we talk until there’s nothing left to say and we drink enough wine to want more wine and then we sprawl out on the couch and watch a randomly selected Friends DVD and discuss how unrealistic it is that women on TV seem to always be wearing a man’s dress shirt after sex as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, when really, I can’t think of a single situation in which I’d get out of bed and be all, “That was lovely, can you hand me the shirt you wore to work today?”

Somewhere between the DVD watching and the obsessive wine drinking, we also managed to severely burn a batch of popcorn and then “fix” said popcorn by melting all the butter in the fridge over it so that we could eat it anyway. Which is to say that this morning was rough and that it’s pretty much going to be touch and go for the rest of the day. Especially since I’m about to leave to get a Brazilian wax, something that falls near “vigorous aerobic activity” and “talking to my mother” on a list of the worst possible things to do while suffering from this kind of hangover.

Yes, this is your cue to think kind and gentle thoughts for my soon-to-be-pained vagina. Unless you’re this guy and you get your giggles from taking a bottle filled with your semen to the grocery store and spraying it on unsuspecting women, in which case I’d appreciate if you never ever ever thought about my vagina ever at all.

When I found out that Jamie hadn’t seen the first two seasons of Grey’s Anatomy I was all, “Um, THE FUCK?? Those are the best seasons!” and she was like, “Uhhhh” and I was all, “Sit down right now, we’re watching them.”

And so we did. Four, five, six episodes in a row. We even stopped going out for a while, making our friends (HI DREA) come over and sit on the couch and watch it with us because we were too invested in the process to waste time with things like “outdoors” and “public” and “three dimensional people.”

But do you know what happens when a few women spend hours upon hours watching wildly dramatic television? They get just a little bit too into it, and one of them starts yelling at the characters on the screen and is all, “Don’t worry Meredith! No! Stop crying! You and Derek eventually do get married! On a post-it note. Also, you get pregnant with his baby. But also, you have a miscarriage before you can tell him you’re pregnant. And also, he gets shot and we’re pretty sure it turns out fine but we’re not entirely sure because season 7 hasn’t started yet.”

And then another person on the couch yells, “Don’t worry George, you marry Callie. And then you drunkenly cheat on her with Izzie. And then it doesn’t work out with Izzie because the sex is awful. Also, your dad dies. Also, you die.”

And then another person on the couch chimes in with, “Seriously, relax Izzie. This thing you’re going through? It isn’t nearly as big of a deal as when you get fucking brain cancer and start seeing visions of your dead ex-fiance.”

God, can you imagine if we could do this to ourselves? If I could go back in time and be all, “Don’t worry 17 year old Nicole, you get into NYU. But then you’re in debt for like, ever. Also, that relationship you’re in? It doesn’t work out. Neither does the next one. Or the next one. Also, you drink too much vodka and make a series of unbelievably bad decisions. And then you have to leave in the middle of class one day to take a pregnancy test. And then you almost have a heart attack from drinking 13 cans of sugar free Red Bull in a 22 hour period. Also, despite your bizarre employment history wherein you spend five years as Director of a children’s summer day camp, four years as a nanny, three months on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange, two years at Williams Sonoma, and one year as manager and part owner of a create-your-own-cookie shop, you wind up managing business operations for Shatterboxx Media and writing a totally irreverent and inappropriate blog that gives people way too much information about your vagina.”

Which is to say, life is unpredictable. Stop freaking out. Things are either going to turn out the way you planned, or they’re not. And sometimes the “not” is the best thing that could ever happen.