Sadface! Cary Randolph locked up her twitter, and now we will never know what brilliance happens in her mind. What’s that? Oh right, her blog! Whew, I was about to go comfort eat or something. I mean, first Hamily, then Cary? Good thing her dazzling tumblr is still available so that we may enjoy her whimsical  sorority stories!

Although I would have denied it at the time, when I was a college sophomore in 2004, I did in fact watch the O.C. regularly. It was a series at its peak, and I lived in a house full of 88 girls (including our annex across the street), and every Thursday night, if you weren’t already filling up on Bud Light at Harpo’s or boning your boyfriend at Beta Theta Pi, you were parked in front of the TV in the yellow room, screaming for your roommate to please bring up two styrofoam cups of dry Lucky Charms to pair with that contraband mix of Fresca and vodka, and please, ladies, chew that loud, crunchy cereal only during commercial breaks. Sandy Cohen’s eyebrows demanded total silence.

And look at her now – living the Glam Life all up in tumblrtown, shredding things with her little roll-y board, and giving you her sartorials. Hanging out at all the hot nightspots with Fatty Kate. Being a popular journalist. Wearing shirts as dresses.

Yes, Cary sure has come a long way since her days as the best dressed sorority girl in Missouri. Too bad she feels she has to lock her twitter. Don’t be so selfish, Cary. Girls everywhere eagerly desire your tweets of sartorial lucidity! Don’t let them down!

As you know, we here at GOMIBLOG have one of those stupid formspring things. It’s handy for a website like this, were people have questions about things we can’t do full posts about.

I don’t have one for myself, though. Personally I wouldn’t enjoy it because I think it shows a level of narcissism that even twitter can’t match. I really hate how everyone suddenly has questions about themselves popping up on their tumblrs from I suppose random readers of their…tumblrs.  Ya know, because having a blog where you write about yourself day in and day out just isn’t enough; now we need to get strangers to help us perfect the skill of exposing ourselves online.

Well, that rant over, here is a perfect example of formspring being used to give some tumblr slug’s ego a handjob:

brittanyabeijon asked: You are a great writer! Did you go to school for journalism?

Thank you! I declared a journalism major at the beginning of my freshman year but switched after a semester to study English and creative writing. Add a history major to that et voila! 100% nerd with a quick pen.

Is this chick for real? Has she read any of Cary’s crap? Any of it? Other questions from her ‘readers’ include telling Cary she has a great sense of style (lulzilepsy) and where does she shop! Bidges please.

I guess I just don’t understand why these idiots can’t just EMAIL Cary and ask her this crap, and she can answer personally and privately? Oh yeah, because then the whole world wouldn’t know that someone thinks she’s Emily Bronte. Congrats, with formspring you’ve gone from sort of boring and full of yourself to full on self-involved mirror hog.

Cary Randolph continues to post her riveting experiences – not on one blog, but two. Between marathons, depantsing in bathrooms, and buying the stunning gravy boats on her feet above, I really don’t see how she has the time. And yet, she somehow manages to churn out post after amazing post:

Last week I received a couple emails inquiring after my recent dearth of running posts.

After my marathon in September I reduced my weekly mileage almost by half. I did so for two reasons: one, I picked up two jobs (one part time and one temp) and no longer have time or energy, and two, I was sick and tired of running.

So I cut back, like a boyfriend might* when his lady gets all up in his grill, and I only made dates (with the trail) twice or three times a week instead of four or five. My Asics looked up at me longingly from my closet floor. “Don’t you love us anymore? You’ve changed.”

“Damn it, sports bra, I need my space!”

I just couldn’t handle the commitment. We didn’t break up, but things got rocky.

And then on Monday night I felt lonely so I dialed the East River promenade and said, “Hey, look, I know I’ve been giving you the run-around (pun!), but I think I’m ready to talk.” So I double-knotted my kicks, threw some Jay-Z in the iPod, and hit the pavement to reclaim my sole-mate (pun!). Ten miles (and some Phil Collins) later, we rekindled the flame.

*The reason I am perennially single probably has a lot to do with the fact that I speak of my running regimen like an errant suitor.

Sure, Cary. That’s what it is…your obsession with running. Not the fact that your conversation makes your dates look for the snooze button for your mouth, it’s the running. Not all your talk of how you’re a writer, or how you LUUUUV the flea market, and like, uh, doing stuff like drinking a brojim’s…zzzzz sorry what? Oh right. Yeah, guys hate chicks who run, you nailed it.

So I actually had this to post a few days ago, never queued it, then forgot about it, because that’s how bored I am of Cary. But I did want to satisfy the readers who wanted to know what she was wearing when she de-pantsed the last Friday night:

Choosing my get-up for the Pop Up was of course a code red crisis, but in the eleventh hour I managed to pull together an ensemble that, in all its chino glory, evoked safaris and hunts and stiff scotch swilling – absolutely perfect for stealth reporting in the sartorial trenches. With the exception of the French Connection blouse (which later became a dress), all pieces are by J. Crew. The phenomenal tiered brass and wood bead necklace I scooped up last summer at Irvington, Virginia’s Dandelion.

Zzzzzzz DOG ATE HOMEWORK! Oh, she’s done. So yeah, there you have it. Another thrilling head to know from a “fashion blogger”. You may now resume pretending to nap so you don’t have to clear the table.

Cary Randolph, rad grrl, spent her Friday shopping flea markets, eating lobster, “sulking in a corner at Soho House”, and squeeing her pants over the Boom Boom Room. Of course, all that lobster and martinis made those pants a little tight:

Y’all know how much I love khaki pants. But after midnight they did not work to my advantage. They felt constricting. They felt wrong. They put me at an unfair disadvantage when fighting for bar space with a leopard minidress-bedecked Lily Donaldson.

I excused myself from my posse of tequila–tossers, checked my military coat, beat Leslie Bibb to the first open bathroom, locked the door, snapped the above photo, removed my pants, stuffed them in my purse, and walked back out.

First rule of partying: Always wear a shirt that covers your ass.

Her daring fashion choice must not have worked too well:

I was just told that I’m not pretty. Flash back to seventh grade. about 20 hours ago from TweetDeck

Awww. It’s ok. Shirts as dresses are totally on trend! You are SO New York! You are Missouri’s Best Dressed! Don’t listen to hatorz!

Cary Randolph, rad ass sk8tr grrl, continues to rapturously worship BroJim’s:

An ode to Brother Jimmy’s BBQ.

(sung to the tune of the Davy Crockett theme song)

Found on a corner in Murray Hill
Home base for every Southern Jack and Jill
This is where they flock when they need something real.
Fill up on brisket and a tall cold pils.

Brother! Brother Jimmy’s! King of the fratty bars.

Wednesday night is ladies’ night every week.
Boys, tip up your ball caps and take a peek.
Their shots are strong, and their draughts are weak,
And when you leave, of Jager your North Face coat will reek.

Brother! Brother Jimmy’s! King of the fratty bars.

Soundtrack blasts my favorite party songs.
A million Guns ‘n Roses fans can’t be wrong.
Eat as much mac ‘n cheese as the day is long,
Then head to Joshua Tree if I’m still feeling strong.

Brother! Brother Jimmy’s! King of the fratty bars.

I’m not sure if this is supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, or whether she actually thinks these things. Mainly I just can’t figure out why this was ever posted on the internet.