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So, a few things about this month’s issue of Vogue:

No. 1: You owe me $3,000 in hospital bills, Anna Wintour. When I tried to pull my copy out of my mailbox, I severely injured both arms. Whether it’s a break or a severe fracture is debatable. But the doctors think I’m going to make it into a few medical journals. The point is, that thing was RIDICULOUSLY heavy. Three inches is far too thick for a “magazine.”

No. 2: Drew Barrymore: what… are… you… doing. She looks like a, like a… I don’t even know. Why don’t you guys take a look:

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Here is my problem with this photograph: Drew Barrymore looks like a classic beauty.

And she’s not.

But before you say that I’m an evil person with unfair definitions of beauty, let me say that i think Drew Barrymore is absolutely gorgeous. But I think she has a unique beauty that is all her own. She has a fun, spunky quality about her that makes her sexy and different.

So, Drew, what’s the deal? Why are you trying to be something you’re not? Let’s take a look back into August 2007, the last time Drew graced the cover of Vogue.

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She looks NOTHING like she does now! Excuse the ungodly amount of exclamation points and capitalization I’ve employed in this post, but I just can’t get over this. It’s not even like August 2007 was a long time ago. Perhaps you think you’re being crafty and pulling one over on the silly readers of American Vogue. Oh, Anna, you’re so sneaky with your Photoshopping abilities.

Way to be a role model, Drew. I think I’ll go out and lose 45 pounds, have my face lifted and get a boob job. Now let that fester in your conscience.

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Name that movie:

“Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.”

I love Mean Girls as much as the next oh-my-God-this-is-SO-my-high-school girl, but this memorable Lohanian quote might not be is definitely not accurate.

As an RA (insert nerd-joke here), I saw a–um–variety of costumes on the much-anticipated evening. Pardon my French, but I saw slutty, skanky, raunchy and everything in between. And let me just say this: as a lover of all things fashion, I was not impressed.

Ladies, ladies, ladies. Halloween is a time to showcase your creativity. It’s the one day of the year when you can pull off literally anything you want to wear. Always wanted to wear a fluorescent pink wig? Please do! Haven’t acted out that Charlies Angels fantasy you’ve been cultivating for 3 1/2 years? By all means. Got a soft spot for Edie Sedgwick? Why not show it off today? But Halloween does not, under any circumstances, mean that you must feel social pressure to pull a B. Spears and give us all a below-the-belt flash.

A DISCLAIMER ON THIS STATEMENT: We have all been there! Well, most of us, at least. I know I certainly have. It was not until this year that I reached this much-needed epiphany. In fact, just last year I was roaming Franklin St. with the rest of the risque parade. But, it’s never too late to change. I give you all a great deal of credit; not only as GBF readers, and not only as UNC students, but as women. Men will find your originality, classy attitude and respect for yourself far more attractive than the bottom two inches of your–ahem–well, you get the picture.

Now, rarely do I put pics of my friends and/or myself on the ol’ blog. But, just for fun, here’s what stir-crazy RAs do when they’re only allowed to go out for an hour and one of them just bought a new camera:

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Oh, and in case you didn’t get it: I was not a wood nymph, nor was I Eve, nor was I A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was a tree. DUH.

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Alright, Brit. I’m gonna put this quite simply: This is a bad life choice. This is the reason for the “Bad” in “The Good, The Bad and The Fab.” This should be reason enough for K-Fed getting custody.

The pirate look was very becoming on Johnny D. But, you see, here’s the thing. You’re not Johnny. Johnny pulls off makeup, bandannas, three-corner hats and God knows he could pull off a pirate belt if he wanted to. But, as previously stated, you’re no John-ster.

Dude, even your body guard is like, “What the eff.” He’s looking to the paparazzi with pleading, desperate eyes. “Please, blind her with your flashing bulbs so I can get away without her seeing me. What? Yes, OK. OK I’ll take you with me. Yeah, you’re right, we should leave a trail of bread crumbs so we can find our way back to say one last goodbye to our families. Just take the picture, quick.”

I drive this really enormous black car (a Buick Century, if you must know), and in high school some of my friends used to make fun of me and say that I drove a boat. They would cry out, “Aaargh, ay ay, Cap’n” when I walked up, and one time they even drew a pirate flag on a piece of notebook paper and taped it to my antenna.

But, I gotta tell you something, B-nasty. You have officially stripped me of my title of Pirate Queen. And, as long as we’re being honest, I almost wish I had it back. For the sake of the children.