Don’t you hate those mornings when you wake up and realize that your biological parents aren’t Kim Basinger and Alec Baldwin? Sometimes I get those two confused with my own parents, because if anyone can give Kim and Alec a run for their money when it comes to psychologically scarring divorce etiquette, my mother and father sure can. And I can say for sure that my dad did not end up with a Spanish-Rose-yoga-instructor-child-bride like Alec did the second time around. But I keep telling myself that Ireland Baldwin and I could definitely be friends. Even though I’ll be close to thirty when she’s close to graduating high school, she is totally Regina George and I am totally the girl who made out with a hot dog.
I want your life, Ireland Baldwin.
She’s 16, 6 feet tall, and ridiculously good-looking. You know what 16 looked like for me? I had bad highlights and wore Mudd flares. I fractured my tail bone and had to sit on a neon blue hemorrhoid donut for a good portion of 10th grade. I also didn’t look like a model when I cuddled my stuffed pig at night and drooled through my retainer.
She bakes like a motherfucker. This girl is constantly posting pics of her latest kitchen creations, and everything she makes would put Barefoot Contessa to shame. And if she’s eating everything she’s cooking, I want her life even more. Or at least another 5 inches in height, so there are more places for my cellulite to go.
This is her backyard, complete with hashtag “phuckyobackyard.” She’s totally right. I don’t even enjoy my backyard because my exhibitionist neighbors don’t like blinds for some reason. Fuck my backyard! Also, I’m pretty sure she owns like 15 pugs and 10 cats. I love pugs and cats almost as much as I love army pants and flip flops!
She actually has a fucking personality. While other celebutantes like the Kardashians are blowing up Instagram with “sexy fishy face,” She posted this funny shot of her dad at the Emmys with the caption, “You go Glen Coco.” Mean Girls references automatically give you about 100 personality points in my burn book.
I think I have to end this post now, because I’m feeling a little creepy. Even though apps like Instagram are made for nothing BUT creeping, I have to face reality. A reality that does not include turning back the hands of time or a Freaky Friday switcheroo with Ireland Baldwin. Also, I don’t want to be on the receiving end of a cyber-punch from her dad for creeping, because I think he’s pretty awesome too.
(Photos courtesy of Instagram)