Tying the knot at 21: Do or Don't?

It has recently come to my attention that more and more people these days are choosing to marry at a young age. Although getting married at the ripe age of sixteen used to be the norm in society, ever since the woman transitioned into the working, powerful and ambitious woman, society began to see a pattern in which women were getting married much later into their 20s and even 30s. In 2010, that trend, it would seem, has taken yet another turn. Married couples are becoming significantly younger once again. Celebrities especially have decided that life is simply too short, why wait? Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt are just one example of a celebrity couple that chose to tie the know at an extremely young age, and we all saw how that turned out- Spencer became extremely aggressive and exhibited puzzling and perplexing behavior, while Heidi proceeded to have part of her back removed in attempt to heighten her appeal, as well as quadruple her breast size (if we can even call those planets on her chest 'breast'). The fact that their choice to wed at an early age not only led them to an overly predictable divorce, but that it also destroyed the public's perception of them as individuals (Heidi is now commonly referred to as an alien with boobs and Spencer is now the angry midget with frosted tips) is reason enough to chill out on dishing those vows. You're probably wondering what prompted me to write about young couples getting married? It lately came to my attention that two individuals with whom I attended High School recently became engaged. For obvious reasons, such as the fact that I myself, am the same age as these individuals and have only ever had one relationship with someone of the opposite sex OR the fact that I currently live with my MOTHER, I found this information quite alarming. I mean, really? At age 21, you are totally positive that you are done scoping the scene, trying different flavors, and are ready to settle down, FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, with your current boo? I mean, this is marriage we are talking about, not some all-inclusive vacation to Mexico for a week of sex and pina coladas. I'm not sure if these couples are aware that while their friends will be out dancing and taking body shots off of the opposite sex (or same sex, you never REALLY know these days what people are feeling) you and your husband or wife will be sitting at home watching re-runs of 7th Heaven, trying to decide which episodes are appropriate for your future children to watch. Or the two of you might be at Home Depot picking out tiles for your kitchen- for which your parents are probably paying. Even worse, a few years down the road, let's say three years into your marriage, you may have popped out a baby or two. I'd like to clarify that at this point, you are 24 years old, married (and to someone who probably used be very attractive but due to the comfort level that now exists between the two of you, has probably let themselves entirely go and now pains you to look at and be reminded that they are your spouse) and now have children. So, while you are breastfeeding your child or cleaning up his or her fresh vomit, your friends are out clubbing, out for dinner, shopping or having crazy intense sex with someone they met on a beach in Bali. You probably haven't even had sex since your baby was conceived due to the fact that you've put on thirty pounds and decided that brushing your hair was no longer a priority and your husband can't even stand to look at you, let alone climb on top of your naked fat body. Apart from the fact that getting married at a very young age completely defaces your social life in every possible way (trust me, no one my age would go out for drinks with a married couple the same age- that would be as painful and as awkward and as featureless as their wedding day), your wedding would probably suck and be entirely unmemorable due to the fact that you are TWENTY-ONE and have absolutely no finances to pay for your wedding, let alone any knowledge to plan a wedding. Yes, as the young bride, you may have watched re-runs of "Say Yes to the Dress" but unfortunately Fairweathers doesn't sell wedding dresses. And your paycheck from Manchu Wok isn't quite enough to buy you a wedding dress that won't have you cringing when you look at your wedding album ten years from now- that is to say, if you and your spouse even last ten years, which is doubtful. Marriage at twenty-one is just not feasible, I simply do not see the logic anywhere. Number one: you are poor and lack the necessary knowledge to plan and host a wedding. For many individuals, their wedding day is the most important day of their lives and it should be made as special and as memorable as possible. The only memorable image of a young couple's wedding that I can conjure is the bride passing out after a few too many wine coolers. Number two reason for which you should avoid getting married at the age of twenty-one: you are so young and should be enjoying all that life as a twenty-something has to offer. I am not suggesting that one should break up with a serious boyfriend or girlfriend who may in fact be possible spouse potential, I am simply arguing that one should not be substituting body shots, foreign flings or alcohol-induced bad decisions for diapers, daycare or movie nights. If you're madly in love with someone then just wait it out, there is no harm whatsoever in doing that. Trust me, no matter how cool or "fun" you and your spouse may in fact be, once you're married at age twenty-one, none of that will matter. You are now old and weird and no one will want to hang out with you. And if your wedding doesn't have an open bar, I wouldn't expect myself or anyone else under 30 to show up. Tying the knot at 21 is a definite and very pronounced "Don't."

The ups and downs of temporary unemployment.

Before I begin, I would like it to be known that I am not forever unemployed and that this fantasy world in which I am currently residing is just temporary- I officially get off my idle ass as of June 20th. For now, however, and since my return to the suburbs of the GTA, I have been, for lack of a better term, a bum. I have been on a thirteen-day vacation. I wake up every morning around 9:30 am by choice (after an untroubled sleep averaging ten to eleven hours- the result of going to bed at the elderly hour of 11:00 pm), make myself a very flavorful and nourishing smoothie (courtesy of a wide selection of fresh fruit, yogurts and juices- all of which I did not pay for), relax either on the couch while channel surfing some of the most wretched morning television to exist or curl up on my porch with my latest novel. After I've digested my wonderful smoothie it's time for my daily exercise: a run along the gloriously polluted Lake Ontario. Seeing as everyone else in society is at work during this time, my runs are peaceful, uninterrupted and judge-free (thanks to a deviated septum and the fact that air enters and exits only one of my nostrils- sexy, right?- I often fall short of oxygen and emit sounds and noises similar to that of a dying bird). I return from my runs feeling both tired and alive, yes, all at the same time. I then spend some time on my living room floor with Jane Fonda from the early 1980s, toning my inner and outer thighs, buttocks, and abdominal muscles. When I turn Jane off, it's time for a nice shower and then a well-deserved lunch. By the time I've eaten my lunch, cleaned up and downloaded the latest episode of Vampire Diaries (Season 1), I'm usually quite exhausted and before I can do anything else, I need a good nap to recharge my batteries. Upon waking up from the most serene one to two hours of my day, it is time to spend some quality time with Ninja Video, my cat and the undeniably appealing cast of Vampire Diaries. By the time I get through two episodes, my mother comes home from work full of energy and conversation. She either starts making dinner or has to go to tennis or some other rendezvous, to which I am not invited (which is never a problem with me). Either way, I am bound to delight in a delectable dish, prepared by either myself or my mother. I always offer to clean up afterward- I mean it's the least I can do, right? These are all the "ups" of being unemployed; I have countless hours to spend as I wish, with little to absolutely no parental supervision, and nobody to make me feel guilty about it in any way. The "ups," however, come to a sudden halt just as the last of the kitchen counters are wiped down. My mother, who has a life and a job, either putters away in the garden for the remainder of the evening, locks herself in the dining room to mark schoolwork (she's an elementary school teacher) or jogs off to some fitness class at her gym. And so, I am alone again. However, it is not so blissful and carefree at this time. Why, you ask? I am suddenly oozing with guilt. Despite the fact that my mother is so happy to have me home and have someone else to talk to other than the cat, she casually reminds me, without fail, every night, in between bites at dinner, that I am making absolutely no money right now, not a cent. And she is so right. I have absolutely zero income at the moment, absolutely nothing. Now, that I am staying at home, with no bills to be paid and no groceries to be bought, this shouldn't lead to me losing sleep at night- and trust me, it doesn't- my means to go out and spend money do not exist. I do not have the financial cushioning to go out for dinner with friends, enjoy a few rounds of happy hour, go to Starbucks and pretend to enjoy an over-priced coffee, or go bowling. As a result of my temporary unemployment, my life and self-confidence no longer exist after 8 pm- nor does my social life. As I struggle to find a comfortable position on the couch (which was SO effortless earlier that day) my mind is racing with anxiety over poverty, idleness and self-doubt. I am no longer enjoying myself, I am suddenly bored, nervous and ashamed. I feel trapped on that couch, alone and afraid that this feeling will never go away. After watching a wide variety of crap on the television- crap that I used to be able to enjoy so easily- provided by either Slice, TLC or the Women's Channel (unusually fabulous by the way, just fabulous) I decide that I can no longer endure any more "downs" of temporary unemployment and decide to call it a night. I head upstairs with low spirits, brush my teeth, wash my face (meh, if I feel like it) and crawl into bed. I usually just lay there for a good five or ten minutes, reflecting on the failure I have become and I begin to panic over the possibility that I will forever lead an idle, undeserving and pathetic life. It isn't until I remember that I really want to know how Olivia, the main character in the novel I am presently reading, is doing and what type of conundrum she's gotten herself into, that I quickly push my woes to the back of mind and reach for my book. I turn my lights out about twenty minutes later and before dozing off into a splendidly long sleep, sigh a big sigh of relief knowing that I won't have to worry about a thing, more specifically my current and very temporary unemployment, until 8pm the next night.

Dogs: Are they really a man's best friend?

Ever heard the saying, "A dog is a man's best friend?" I'm going to assume that you're a member of society and that yes, you have in fact heard this saying at one time or another in your life. I'm going to argue here that not only do most dogs suck, but that they are actually the opposite of a man's best friend. Best friends do not expect you to feed them on a daily basis; best friends do not expect you to voluntarily pick up their warm, fresh feces without you even having to ask; best friends do not expect you to set time apart from your day, EVERY day to take them on walks (during which you will be expected to pick up their feces with your hands); best friends do not wake you up in the middle of the night because they have to take a piss; best friends do not eat your shoes (unless something is seriously wrong with them); best friends do not expect to make sure they're healthy by organizing yearly appointments with their doctor; best friends do not expect you to decipher what a loud "woof" or a soft "woof" actually means; best friends don't expect you to take time out of your day to throw various objects including sticks, balls or frisbees for them to chase after and retrieve. Nope, none of my best friends have ever made partake in any of the above- UNLESS, I was getting something in return. Dog lovers reading this may be entirely appalled by what I have just said. Some of you may be thinking, "Well, of course I get something in return for all of these things I do such as loyalty, love, protection and....friendship from my dog." Oh, you are a sad soul. Do you think your dog actually likes you? Do you think he respects you? He doesn't- he is simply hungry, striving for survival, and has become so accustomed to you as being the provider for things such as food, warmth and shelter that the illusion of him actually loving and needing you is so easily created. Are you really convinced that when you come home from work, errands or merely being away from the house for an extended period of time that when your dog comes dashing to the door, it is because he wants to talk about your day at work, or what you got up to on your lunch break, or how fresh the produce was at the grocery store? No, do not be silly. That dog is either hungry or has a full bladder and knows that you are the person who will be able to relieve these two things. Do you actually think the dog wants to chat about life? Catch up? Discuss current news? Wrong. And what about when most dogs (I say most and not all due to the fact that some dogs are so pathetically small and have no way of reaching) greet you by shoving their muzzle in between your legs? Is it normal for one's best friend to sexually violate them every time they see each other? I should hope not. Perhaps I will ignore the random boob graze or awkward butt rub with a best friend as a result of one too many cocktails, but on a regular basis? Absolutely not; no best friend of mine will be shoving their face in between my legs, forcing me to endure a form of sexual harassment and then expect me to pick up their poo. The concept that a dog is a man's best friend is simply absurd and idiotic. And to be quite frank, any human that actually does consider their dog to be their best friend has some pretty low standards when it comes to BFFs. You should be having fun with your best friend and partaking in fun activities such as parties, pedicures, going to the movies, going out for dinner or going shopping! Picking up your best friend's shit should definitely not be on that list.

Saying 'goodbye' is always hard; Hannah will be the hardest.

As my third year at McGill officially wraps up- my bags are packed, my last shifts at the Redbird Sports Shop have come and gone (which currently has no air conditioner and I'm basically sweating as much as R. Kelly at a six-year girl's birthday party) I am heading back to the homeland tomorrow for a glorious three months of home-cooked meals, curfews, chores and cable. From the second I stepped foot on McGill turf I have not been home for a period of time longer than two weeks. This is largely due to the fact that I have been continuously cursed with the worst exam schedule almost every December, an arduous sales position at American Apparel, and a summer spent in Banff which commenced only two short days after arriving home from first year, AND a summer spent in Montreal. Thus, my main point: my move back to the suburbs is a seriously big deal and it is stirring up some painfully conflicting emotions. The main attraction of 2349 Lakeshore is obviously my cat. She's usually so moody during my two week stints at home because she knows I'm just going to be leaving her shortly, so being home for an extended amount of time will really give us some time to work on our relationship. Leaving Montreal isn't going to be all that easy though. Just like my relationship with my cat, I've also created some very important and influential relationships in Montreal. My most cherished relationship in Montreal is not with my roommates (deal with it, Mere), my landlord, the bi-polar woman who lives above me or the man who curb-side masturbates in the ghetto- it is with Hannah, the lovely, charming and wholesome woman behind the counter of Super Dep. Hannah is literally an angel. There are so many positive things I could say about Hannah, as well as the wonders of Super Dep. For those of you non-ghetto residents, Super Dep, on the corner of Prince Arthur and Parc, is one of Milton Park's finest Depanneurs. With a wide variety of beer, wine coolers, liter bottles of the cheapest and most disgusting, yet appealing wine (in red, white and rose- my friend Jay's favourite), five-cent candy GALORE, the freshest sour keys on the block (trussst me- I would know), a respectable selection of one's basic groceries, magazines, gum and even some hygiene products for those of us who forget to regularly bathe (tragedy) Super Dep is all anyone could ask for. It simply is the best Dep, and I would start a petition for it to have its name officially changed to "Best Dep" but "Super" is the next best way to describe it. Now, onto Hannah. Hannah is one of the many Asians to work at the plethora of Deps in the ghetto and surrounding area, but I will argue here that she is easily my favourite Dep employee. She is ALWAYS in a good mood (with the exception of Friday and Saturday nights at around 10:50 pm with a rather large line-up of those ghetto residents who decided to go out last minute and needed some bReWz) and she is always smiling. On top of her genuinely caring and kind character, she is always looking out for the wallets of her loyal customers (like me.) When buying beer, my financial well-being is always one of her top priorities. She never lets me complete a transaction without letting me know that I could be getting the same kind of beer for less money if I were to simply switch from bottles to cans or a six-pack to a twelve-pack- she literally is heaven on earth. The amount of money she has saved me is unimaginable. Of course, all the money I have saved on beer has more than likely been spent on the holy goodness of Hannah's enormous selection of five-centers and sour keys- and long nibs, cannot forget the long nibs. I am more than happy though to spend an extra few dollars here and there at Super Dep, even if it means spending money I wouldn't have spent in the first place. Seeing as I frequent Super Dep, on average, about five times a week, my interactions with Hannah have become more personal over the last two years. She knows my name, she knows about my love affair with candy, she feels comfortable enough to comment on how tired I look sometimes (which, quite frankly, I could do without, I mean I own a mirror-but hey, honesty is always a good policy) and she knows I'm going to ask for cash back, so it's simply a matter of inquiring how much I'll need. This summer is going to be awfully strange with Hannah. "Deps" do not exist in the suburbs of Ontario. Sure, we have "convenience stores" but these do not sell beer or wine and the employees usually only allow two or three teens in the store at once (yes, I still consider myself a teen- it makes my crush on Justin Bieber more legit) and none of them provide the same customer service as Hannah. One thing I will not miss about Super Dep, however, is the male employee there (Hannah's brother, cousin or hubby maybe? I'm actually not sure). Regardless of the details of their relation, he sucks. He has requested that I only put twenty candies in a bag, and if I want more than twenty (which I always do, let's be serious) then I have to put them in another bag. Does he know how annoying that is??? I really should talk to Hannah about that come September.

Is anyone truly happy with their age?

Don't worry. This is not one of Carrie Bradshaw's mind-blowing columns about dating and sex. You know, at the seven minute mark of every SATC episode, where Carrie has experienced some life changing event on the sidewalk or while shopping with Samantha, and it becomes the topic of her latest column? Well, if you have a penis you probably don't know what I'm talking about, but for the straight ladies, you most likely do. I am, however, seriously asking the question, Is anyone ever TRULY happy with their current age? When we were young and donning Northern Getaway outfits, we filled our seemingly boring days with fictitious games such as House, Doctor, Nanny, Teacher or Chef- all games during which we pretended to be triple our age, grown up, settled into adulthood and a shiny career; a time and a place in which we all could not wait to be! I cannot count the number of times I would put on my mother's awkwardly unattractive kitten heels she wore to Church sometimes and painted my lips red and "pretended" that I was living out my one true dream as an "adult." In my mind, being an adult was COOL, fun and simply WAY better than being a kid in every possible way. However, as I sit here at my desk (oh god, sorry if I sound like Carrie), unemployed, unmotivated, bloated from eating my emotions, and on the verge of depression courtesy of the fact that I have just completed my third year at one of Canada's top universities and the best gig I could score myself was a 15 hour work-week at my school's Sports Shop, I'm really loathing my eight year-old self for actually wanting to be an adult with responsibilities, and sleepless nights accompanied by anxiety attacks and heart palpitations. If only I knew that being an adult can actually suck. We were all so naive believing that adulthood would be glamorous, liberating, full of choice and opportunities. Oh, how we were wrong. I cannot tell you the number of times in the last year I have longed for the carefree days of my childhood. My most pressing concern as a child was whether or not my mother had packed me a Joe Louis or an apple for recess snack (yeah, I was a fat kid, obviously I crossed my stubby little fingers for a Joe Louis), or whether or not my soccer team would be assigned a "cool" team name (I remember getting White Caps one year and I was so pissed off- I really wanted to be the Rebels) or whether or not my mom would let me stay up until 8:30 to watch the latest episode of Full House with my sisters (I don't think I've ever not watched a re-run...Peggy never let me watch Full House, ugh). My point is, the woes and worries of children are jokes compared to what we are expected to deal with as young adults, and I find it so ironic that as a child I could not wait to be an adult, and would have skipped adolescence just to get to the time and place where your parents couldn't dictate what to wear, eat, and the hour of bedtime. Although I do enjoy being my own life boss, I am really not that good at it. Cell phone bills, group projects, birth control, job interviews, anxiety, emotional baking, negative balance bank accounts- these types of things which we deal with on a regular basis, were definitely, in no way, components of my childhood game of "Adulthood." I would do anything right now to be a child again- to have my meals made, my bills paid, absolutely ZERO life responsibilities except to stay away from strangers. As children we got away with everything! The number of times I pissed my bed and my mother felt SORRY for me? If I called my mother and told her I pissed my bed she would be embarrassed and tell me to grow up and get my act together. As children, there is no act to get together, no job to show up to, no bills to be paid, no readings to be read. Life for children is blissful, carefree, and something I pine after far too often these days. I could even opt for being 65 right now, retired and somewhere warm. Yes, I probably wouldn't look as good, my skin wouldn't be as soft and I'd probably have chronic this or chronic that and be wearing a diaper, but at least I'd be less stressed! Old people aren't even allowed to be stressed- it's bad for their hearts! Seeing as no one has managed to design a fully functional time machine yet (google "Time Machine," though, the shit that will pop up is somewhat alarming), escaping to my wonder years is unfortunately not an option. Thus, as far as I can tell, I'm going to have to find the courage and deal with my quarter-life crisis head on, or stick it out until I'm 65 and living what my 21 year-old self perceives to be the "dream."

When dealing with Justin, it is important to read between the lines.

Ok, so, Justin Bieber, is undoubtedly one of my new favourite people, or kids, I should say. I'm going to take the liberty right here and now to coin the term "Biebermania" to explain the pop sensation and cultural phenomena he has become. His catchy love ballads are irresistibly addictive, and have most certainly climbed their way up on my itunes "Top 25 Most Played" (sad, I know, but shit happens). He has taken the tween/teen/young twenty-something female population by storm and it doesn't appear that he will be letting up anytime soon. On top of the fact that he has possibly reached greater heights of popularity than the Jonas Brothers (yep, I said it, deal with it) he has paired up with some seriously established and LEGIT artists. With having only released one album, he has songs with Ludacris and Usher. I mean, Ludacris sort of went off the radar, but Usher will always remain one of the most worthy and accomplished R&B stars in the industry. I mean, he is no doubt so smooth, so ballin' (thanks to his Confessions album) and a person who delivers serious street cred. Sure, Usher has done about 1000 duets and remixes, but with a sixteen year-old white boy with an emo slice? Dayum, Bieber, boy is stepping up. Despite the fact that he recently hit the ripe ago of 16, and yet still looks like he's 12 sometimes (not that this makes me have any less of a HUGE crush on him, which essentially makes me a pedophile), all of his songs are about love, heartbreak, the struggles of heartbreak, the agonies of heartbreak, the ups and downs of heartbreak and the eventual end of heartbreak. For a sixteen year-old, it seems that Justin has a lot of experience with love and heartbreak, which makes sense, right? I mean he's sixteen. Just because I was still watching the family channel and eating fruit roll-ups at that age does not mean that all sixteen year-olds are not as experienced with love as I was. Sometimes, however, I can't shake the feeling that he really has no idea what he's talking about. OR, on the flip side, he knows exactly what he is singing about in his songs, and is simply a marketing genius who is able to cleverly convey two entirely different messages that appeal to two different age groups. Let's take his song with Usher, "First Dance." It is a great slow jam, has a solid beat-something you can relax to yet also shuffle your feet to perhaps- and Usher is in it, so like, just because of that single fact, the song is obviously that much more bomb. Moving on to the actual lyrics of the song however, stirs up some confusion. When I first heard the song, I was all like, "Aw, JB, sewww cute! Singing about his first dance with a girl he likes! That is seww preshy!!" But, then, after listening to it a few more times my naivety began to waver. I mean, he's supposed to be talking about sharing his first dance with some other young sixteen-year old girl at prom. But lyrics such as, "Girl I promise I'll be gentle , I know we gotta do it slowly. If you give, give the first dance to me, I'm gonna' cherish every moment, 'Cuz it only happens once, once in a lifetime," really don't create an image of two teeny-boppers sharing an awkward first dance together. This sounds a lot like Justin planning on getting it in for the first time after prom, probably in some five-star hotel room that his manager had to sign for (you have to be eighteen to book a hotel room). The whole "Girl I promise I'll be gentle," really does not seem to be discussing one's first dance. I mean, how gentle does one have to be when SLOW dancing? Maybe if they were bumping and grinding or something, I can understand how an injury might take place, but slow dancing? Justin is clearly talking about losing his virginity to this girl. A very close look at his lyrics is not only indication of this, but the fact that USHER, one of the most sexual beings on this earth is accompanying young JB on this track, makes it beyond clear that "First Dance" really is about losing one's virginity. Such a BOLD move on JB's part. Luckily for him, his young and clueless fans would have no idea, but as for me, a much more sophisticated and informed fan, I know exactly what JB is referring to. Regardless of his songs' hidden messages, he is still the adorable Justin Bieber to me, whose songs I still shamelessly sing out loud and request at clubs.

Exams are over, it's time for mindless television.

Hey guys, guess who's back? After a very long and exhausting exam period, consisting of awfully late nights, daily visits to the pita man in redpath (I always hope for the brown man, the white man just does not know how to properly secure the pita's ingredients), countless quarters spent on chocolate covered almonds at the 25 cent treat machine and about one hundred unnecessary flex dollars, I am back. The one good thing about exams, besides them being a thing a of the past, is the fact that you get to suffer with your friends. I find that exams even bring friends closer together, what with all the tears, anxiety, coffee (monster cookie) breaks and stress. But, now that exams are over, I get to spend time with the people I really care about. No, I'm not talking about my roommate Meredith, who i barely saw during exams, or my family, or Hannah at the super dep, I am referring to the really important people in my life, the people who I depend on for happiness, laughter, insightful conversation, enlightenment, and a fresh perspective on life. I am talking about the cast of the Hills, the City and Gossip Girl- just your usual television characters/real people (some not so real, ahem, Heidi Montag, the wonder woman of plastic) one would expect a third year McGill student to form a somewhat obsessive bond with. Anyways, life just got so much better when the Hills, the City and Gossip Girl became a part of my life again. The Hills has obviously reached new heights this season. Kristin is back and being kristin-y as ever (and I never realized how manly her voice was) and Heidi is also back, new but-not-so-improved. The girl looks like a circus freak. Her breasts are bigger than the moon, she can't even move her face, courtesy of her chin job, nose job revision (actually?), her eyebrow life (which has made her look like she is always really shocked about something), and the fat she had injected into her cheek. She openly admitted to wanting to look like Barbie and also confessed her dream of having even bigger breast, size H to be specific (H for Heidi). Anyways, her new name is Hidi, for hideous. She looks so awful that her own mother, who is supposed to love her unconditionally, couldn't even bare the site of her daughter's new look. My favorite part about the whole Heidi Montag makeover, however, is the frail state in which the operations left her body. Whenever she ventures out of her L.A. bungalow to go show off her new bod and "friends" go to hug her, Heidi, immediately pulls back and mumbles (because that's all her face will allow her to do), "oh, be gentle- surgery hug!" Surgery hug? SURGERY HUG? Who the hell would want to hug her in the first place? The girl looks so scary, and god forbid she start to cry in front of small children- her face does this weird morphing thing whenever she starts to cry; it doesn't really move while she's crying, it sort of just slowly goes into this weird squished version of her already terrifying face. Anyways, enough about Hidi. Her hubby, Spencer Pratt, is also losing it...or shall I say, his "marbles." He has reason to believe that the world owes him everything and that no one is worthy of his trust, friendship or sanity. He has become obsessed with crystals that he believes will ward off all evil spirits of downtown L.A. Unfortunately for him, he really is not getting the memo that what these crystals are actually doing are making him look like a gypsy at a flea market wearing way too much jewelery, as well as Chewbacca with his new facial hair. The Hills tell a sad story of a group of very sad people and their very sad lives- and I couldn't thank MTV more for polluting my brain with their nonsense every Tuesday night.