If Jennifer Lopez has any sort of moral compass, she’ll donate her brain/DNA to science after she dies so scientists can study how the hell she stayed so perfectly hot for so long? Yes, exercise and diets and money, but at a certain point it all boils down to genetics, and J. Lo’s are clearly on another — if not alien — level entirely.
While you were recovering from your hangover yesterday, J Lo posted a fire new video to Instagram for Paper Magazine. Directed by photographer Ellen von Unwerth for Paper Magazine, the video shows J. Lo doing a bunch of artsy shit and blah blah blah.
Honestly, if you’d rather read a description of how hot the video is instead of just watching it for yourself, you got issues man.
I mean, seriously, if you’re even still reading at this point, I’m just going to change the subject entirely. Let me tell you about the time I broke my ankle, the only bone I’ve ever broken.
I was about 19 and heading into my sophomore year at Rutgers. Summer in my hometown was winding down so a buddy of mine up the road had one last party before we all headed back to school. Anyway, back in my day, Uber and Lyft weren’t around yet, so if you were going to a party, someone was either designated driving or driving drunk — it was just the facts of life back in 2012. BUT, this party was so close to my house that it was one of those special occasions where I could get absolutely hammered and not have to worry about how I was getting home since I was going Fred Flintstone my way home anyway.
Long story short, since only the true psychopaths are still reading at this point and I have other things to do on this fine Monday morning, some horseplay (I jumped off a deck) led to me breaking (fracturing? the one where it’s not completely broken) my ankle, the only problem is, I didn’t really realize it (thanks, alcohol) and still had to make that half-mile-or-so walk back to my own house.
The next morning I wake up and my ankle is the size of about, well, two ankles. Two thicc ankles. I try to get out of bed but immediately collapse in pain, finally realizing, “F*ck me dude, that’s definitely broken.”
I call my ex-girlfriend to come pick me up — since there is NO way I’m waking up my parents with the news that their idiot son broke his ankle a week before he heads back to college — and trek to the hospital. I’m in a walking boot for about 8 weeks, 7 of which I spent living at a frat house. Thank god for pledges and sympathy p***y, am I right?
Moral of the story? Uber and Lyft are marvels of science, kids. Cherish them.
