Special Guest Post from my talented cunt of a friend: 

My name is Tim. I’m a perfectly-normal looking individual presently existing in the pits of Hades, also known as North County, San Diego. Years back, the biggest attraction around town was the Carlsbad mall. Truly, it’s not the most glamorous of places to be nor something worth gloating about. However, when you’re a teenager, too old for miniature golf at the Family Fun Center (Boomers, you 2000s kids) yet not old enough to break into your first R-rated movie, one has limits where their parents’ cash flow is concerned.

And so recently I stopped through the mall to pick up birthday presents for two friends. One present I knew I could find at both Macy’s and JcPenny’s (or simply, Penny’s; who has time for extra syllables these days, I ask you?). The other was a quick gift card. Figuring it was my day off, I got the oil changed in my Prius (yeah, I’m one of those people), had the tires rotated, calibrated, corner-stoned, and whatever else one can do with tires beside swing in one, then made my way on my very short to-do list.

After cursing under my breath when someone snatched my unclaimed parking spot, I headed into the mall, passing through the doors faster than my gladiator sandals could (note: I will not wear them in the arena. I should’ve taken the note from Katniss, but whatever), and proceeded to Penny’s. Here, I located the perfume to be gifted, caressing the silk of the plastic wrap, and gauged the price versus the size of the container.

(I’ll stop here to acknowledge I’ve only started wearing cologne this year. The designer logo, whose name I cannot pronounce by the embossed text on the box, made the vial that more expensive. However, I love the stuff. I want to spray it on everything then roll around on said everything. Okay, back to story time.)

I came across this particular lady perfume the other day and thought it would be an appropriate birthday gift. After seeing what Penny’s had to offer, I exited the store to find Macy’s. Here’s where the point of this ramble takes shape.

As a giving person, the largest gift I can give the receiver (pun intended, gays) is my time. I always make time for those amusement park team members, hefting heavy, complicated cameras around their necks, asking if I would like my picture taken. Sure, I say. And I say yes because I know they have quotas to meet on a day-to-day basis. Also, should someone be handing out samples of ANYTHING, I’ll swing by, say Thank you, as they did slave over a hot portable microwave for minutes to create my miniature meal, and merrily stroll along until I find the next free food item.

I do not, however, usually stop and converse with those who manage and maintain mall kiosks.

I don’t wear sunglasses, given my incredibly handsome looks in glasses (sizing up to be the bottoms ofCoke bottles before too long) and I haven’t a need for plastic space shooters and their foam disks (…anymore), or to be sold insurance on the spot, or to fill out some election form about candidates of whom I’ve never heard of until that moment when the clipboard flashes in front of my face like lightning. On this day of my much-sought after birthday gift, I was stopped by a man working a kiosk which sold ceramic-plated straighteners, some terribly luminescent bottles of hair conditioner, and lighted mirrors, detailing every crater and crevice on the surface of one’s face should one be brave enough to take the reflective plunge.

There was nothing which interested me to hand over my credit card, so I simply looked the man’s way and smiled. First mistake.

Hi, do you mind if I ask you a question, he asked, proceeding before I actually answered. What do you use for your skin?

As a perfectly-normal looking individual presently existing in North County, I had my fair share of skin problems. In high school, polished skin reigned supreme. I never had acne as a teen, and it wasn’t until my early 20s that the real problem erupted. Literally. On my damn face.

I hated acne. I hated every tube of stuff claiming it had solutions to my problems, or whatever forum I’d find myself browsing where its contributors had tips and secrets from some magical land called their pantry. I did about all you could do to fight my skin. I tried this, didn’t try that; splashed this one on, but remembered not to pick at that. Try as one might, with certain food restrictions to lessen the blow, and drinking buckets of water to purify from the inside out, I still had acne.

And it’s true, I still get it. At 28 years young, I figure (not planning on it, though) I’ll be dealing with adult acne for the better part of my future. Yet it’s manged now. I have a routine that doesn’t involve sand-papering my face into oblivion (out of sight, out of mind?) and that reacts well with my sensitive albeit blemished face.

So this day, the day in question, I felt wonderful about my skin. It looked great, thus I felt great. And then some perfect stranger, Mr. Kiosk himself, stops me on my way to ask about how I keep my face looking so nice. Who wouldn’t linger on a moment longer in case another compliment was on its way?

Answer: NO BODY.

Oh, I say, I use this stuff from Dr. Gilcrest. It’s available online, too. It’s a foam cleanser.

Mr. Kiosk nods, looking away ever so slightly. And what about dry skin? What do you use?

Great, does my skin look like it gets dry? Can you see my true colors? Is my human disguise weathering, revealing the space lizard hidden within?

Just some moisturizer from Wal-Mart. Nothing fancy. I have sensitive skin, though. Especially around my mouth. I do recall in that moment using my finger to draw a circle around my mouth. You know, just in case he’s wondering what hole in my body I’m talking about.

And what about your eyes? He indicates to his own eyes, drooping upside umbrellas in case I, too, am wondering which holes in his body he’s talking about.

Nothing, I say.

You must be 16, 17, 18!

Huh? I ask.

How old are you?


With that, he fist bumps me. There are a million other things I know to do with a fist, however, bumping is usually left to straight guys saying good-bye or when something extremely pleasing occurs that the energy of that greatness can only be facilitated to one’s fist, then, cordially, knocked against a comrade’s. Camaraderie of the 21st century, I suppose.

I can’t help it, but, after being a fool and leaving Mr. Kiosk with his fist raised, untouched, I meekly bring mine to his and lamely brush his knuckles as if we’re in bumper cars and I’m scared to scratch the rubber.

Another thing I cannot help is walking onward toward Macy’s with a smile framing my face. What awonderful thing to say to someone who takes another second in a mirror, praying, Maybe someday, it’ll be gone. I remember walking a little taller down the tiled corridor, watching my reflection in the shops’ windows, like a kaleidoscope of pride and reassurance I deserve some good days to make up for the bad.

At Macy’s, I find the same perfume and buy it up before the counter girl can find another bottle of blue dye to try out on her rainbow head. I let the paper bag swing in my pace, smiling at random people (note: should you find yourself inside the Carlsbad mall of North County, do not smile at random people. They do not like it. As if I’m going to snatch their synthetic fibers off their backs or ask, Wherever did you get that tattoo of a butterfly from? It’s simply unique!). I trot down one escalator trying to find the second store to purchase the gift card. When I do, I’ve wound my way around the mall, what seems to be miles away from Mr. Kiosk and his giving hand.

I make my purchase, throw the gift card into the Macy’s bag, and decide it’s time to leave. Only, and given my memory for recollection (it’s short; like, Find Nemo Dory-short), I need to stop in (and smell) Bath & Body Works. And what do you know, it’s behind Mr. Kiosk! Maybe he’ll smile after our previous conversation (Heavens, those boys can get it every which way ‘til Sunday) and I’ll have made his day because he’s made mine.

Before I make it past the archway of my new destination, Mr. Kiosk is in conversation with another patron. That’s when I hear:

And what about your eyes?

No… He didn’t just ask that, did he? And wait… he’s not making the same motion under his eyes like he did with me, right?

Oh wait. Yes. Yes, he did.

Long story short, I released that notion of good-feeling and a rather regal boast of pride as soon as I smelled my first candle inside Bath & Body Works. But I have to remember were I to work at a mall kiosk the initial ice-breakers and drab pleasantries of introduction can become robotic. In fact, I remember when he asked what I use on my own skin there was a tiredness resonating on his tongue, like he’s asked that question a million times before. So I get it. I get there’s a sales pitch to make, that your job could be on the line if one doesn’t meet their quota, and that even when you do make a sale or your numbers, you have to do it again tomorrow, only better.

I think when I started this loquacious litany, my intent was to find revenge in the person who brought me a minute of joy only to steal it away faster than it was dealt– but I wonder how I would be feeling right now if I never heard him that second time? Would it still be bothersome to me, enough that writing it out in a fever would bring me the bit of solace one deserves? As if evident enough, I did care enough. And when I dish out compliments they’re not ones to make up the room where awkwardness would have crept in. I mean what I say. Thus, it is my advice to you to say someone looks nice and really mean it. Hell, be a dick and compliment their dress makes their arm fat less noticeable, but isn’t it nice knowing some fabric can hide those Bingo arms? Isn’t it?

I close this as I open this bag of chocolate-covered pretzels. I realize chocolate isn’t kosher in respect to the condition of my skin, but ten times out of ten, the need to squander feelings can only be done with food. Yes, I will enjoy them, and yes, it may make my skin flare up. But I’ll be happy. Isn’t that was Mr. Kiosk wanted, too?

And no, I’m not saving you any pretzels. I can, however, tell you to Google your local Trader Joe’s and wish you luck some asshole doesn’t steal your parking spot. My gift to you.


poundingserfs said: <3

<3 <3 <3 



PSFU Forever Alone

I’ve been in a long term relationship with myself, with sprinkles of regrettable dissonance. I am not ashamed. I am frequently inundated with pity glances and unsolicited advice from people.

How are you single?
Maybe you’re too picky?
You should settle at this point.
I have a cousin. He makes a lot of money…
You should let a guy take care of you. 

To keep things cordial, I listen and nod and let my eyes glaze over as I imagine a family of Pandas, snuggling my uninvited life coach to death. I appreciate the advice and genuine concern, but let me dispel some assumptions right here.

-I have no problem meeting men. Usually walking outside will do the trick. I’m not the most attractive human on the planet, but let’s be real. I’m breathing, female, and on most days I look 18.  

-Having a job or money is not the basis of my evaluation in a dating situation. I’ve been paying my own bills for over a decade now. The only place I want to be “taken care of” is in the bedroom and potentially in the kitchen. Feed me, fuck me and we’re off to a great start. 

-Picky? I don’t think I’m picky, per se. I expect someone to bring a minimum of personality to the table with sprinkles of humor, wit, intellect and the occasional “that’s what she said joke”. The exterior is slightly less of a concern, and so is the salary. As long as ambition and drive are welcomed roadblocks on my potential suitor’s life journey—-we good. I do prefer a non-misogynist though, so that does severely segment the list of available suitors. I’m not a die-hard feminist; I am just educated. 

-How am I single? It’s by choice, for those still unconvinced. It’s a struggle really. Every morning I hear my biological clock whining about our impending obesity and I punch that bitch in the face. We’ve reached a lovely middle-ground.

Most of the men I meet spend about 20 minutes talking about what great guys they are. The next 10 minutes of conversation include coordinates to their crossfit gym, caloric intake per diem, a reference to my height/size/shape, and an invitation to the chamber where their dick is stored. Riveting…

-Not all girls like assholes. (This is probably where I eradicate most of my options. ) I am one of those rare breeds. Your short fuse and hyper-aggression have no place in my zen garden (vaginal reference). You know what’s sexy? Not playing games. Fidelity. Breakfast in bed. Not hitting on everything that walks. Caring about whether your potential suit-ee has a brain… 

The Bro Bible told you to say that? Oh good, another human being on this planet that is incapable of independent thought. 

In closing, I should settle? Kill yourself.




This post is a little different; perhaps heart-wrenching, perhaps inspirational, perhaps less “suck my dicks” per paragraph than usual. Only marginally.

I’ve been stuck in a rut: financial hardships, misguided friendships, government partisanships… Trying to carve a sinewy life path is proving to be more of a challenge than trying to keep up with a Kardashian. Life keeps throwing curveballs in the dark, but such is the curse of being a badass, machete-wielding Unicorn. 

I’ve spent the better part of my livelihood people-pleasing, shaking hands, kissing babies, and choking on humble-dick pie. Albeit a flame-throwing, mythical creature, I’m probably the most sensitive congealment of particles you will ever meet. The harsh exterior is a facade to distract from the pool of jelly that lies beneath. I am the human equivalent of a stale jelly donut.  

But enough is enough. I won’t sit by and entertain the thought of a personality replacement, because I know I will always be Cadbury Egg on a lukewarm summer day. But I do vow to suit-up and grab life by the sticky nut-sack, and get everything I presumably deserve. If any haters stand in my way, so help me—I will (probably cry about it in my car while I) devise a plan to take over the universe and kick you out. 

I’m smart enough, I’m brave enough, and I survived college without ever punching a single Poli-Sci major in the face. I GOT THIS BITCH!

**This post probably serves no purpose being published, since it’s a self-serving, pump-up speech. But maybe, just maybe, it inspired at least one person to do something. Even if that ‘something’ is as categorically unpleasing as an eye roll.**

Prepare yourself universe, “suck my dick” is coming.




I just spent a 1950’s dowry on a couple of decolletage-friendly napkins and dayglow vagina sheaths from American Apparel. 

This money could’ve been used to save a rainforest, to jumpstart the libido of a prudish panda, or to rebuild a sand castle in Newport. But alas, I made it rain on a collection of greedy hipsters who wear tube socks as pants. I am literally the worst person ever. 

Taking a cue from my own contrition, I’ve reconciled a list of better ways to manhandle my money. 

1. Add cash-money to my liver reparation fund. Unfortunately, this will undermine my liver destruction fund, but there are ways to circumvent such a catastrophe. Cheap alternatives to cocktail devouring include: strapping 40s to my thigh, drinking cough syrup and distilling nail polish remover for casual consumption. 

2. Add money to my savings account. The financial institutions in the US are corrupt, so I’m currently negotiating terms with a Nigerian Prince who has promised to sit on a pile of my money until I am mentally competent enough to saunter through a mall, financially unscathed. 

3. Repurpose my slut clothing and sell items to middle schoolers looking for “that edge”. Transitioning to high school is tough, but not when you look like a walking STD with braces. This project would combine a few of my favorite things: mentorship, puberty, capitalism and crotchless pantaloons. 

4. The stock market is more volatile than my BAC, but I believe in making well-researched investments and patiently waiting for them to come to fruition. I just mailed out 35 envelopes with $1 amounts to poker players around the nation. I also mailed out contracts with the envelopes explaining that the players owed me my investment back plus retro-active interest totaling 1k per person. A laundry list of blackmail items was stapled to the back of these contracts with a post-it saying “do the right thing”. Business balls, I has them. 



It’s official, I’m anthrophobic. After years of being treated like the underside of a shoe, the thought of human interaction leaves me with an aggressive case of shingles. Not sure when my ability to internalize shut down, but on most days I seek solitude to avoid being taken advantage of. If there’s a whisper of a chance that someone is deceitful, I bubble boy myself to avoid social distortion. It’s a schizophrenic-level of paranoia; conspiracy theory to the maximus. 

So it goes…

But here’s a letter for everyone that has treated me poorly without just cause: 

You win.

I formerly renounce my title as Queen Bitch of the World.

I will immerse myself in select comforts, possibly including black cloaks, midday naps, Nancy Drew mysteries, telepathy, indoor cigar-smoking and trolling reality tv forums.

Sustenance will come in the form of Amazon subscriptions to fruit roll-up, Vitamin Water and chia seeds. And once a month, I’ve scheduled a visit from the UPS man to sock me in the ovaries to keep them stimulated. I’m a crafty hermit. 

I will no longer tell passersby to “suck my dick” or engage them in a light-hearted game of rohypnol roulette. Nightclubs will miss the vicious wrath of my fist-pump, the glorious symmetry of my helicopter swing and the graceful repentance of my liver to porcelain. 

Anti-social is the new black, and I like my social norms like I like my coffee… 




Hallmark tells me a certain heart-shaped holiday is around the corner. Some call it ‘Valentine’s Day’ I call it ‘National Eat a Dick Sandwich Day’ —I believe that’s the Latin name for it. My love life, as of late, has been like a Hollywood fairytale. More specifically, like the movie Zero Dark Thirty. I haven’t actually seen it, but from what I understand the protagonist hides alone in a cave trying to cultivate a winter beard, while men relentlessly try to hunt said protagonist down. 

Sounds about right…

But since I sucked big fat bootcamp donkey dick tonight, my endorphin-high has me feeling pretty optimistic about the prospect of finding love or indigestion-like stomach butterflies. So here’s a list of all the qualities I’m looking for a mate because let’s face it, Valentine’s Day is all about me. 

1. Alive. In the literal sense, also in spirit and attitude. I want someone with life behind their eyes, and an espresso-like robustness to their words and actions. 

2. Accepting. I’ve become frightfully weird in my old age. For example, I do brain teasers before bed to prevent early onset dementia. And I sleep with my running shoes on in case I’m attacked in the middle of the night or wake up with the sudden urge to exercise. Preparedness, I has it. 

3. Transparent. I’d like to date someone without ‘charade’ or ‘masquerade’ or any kind of ‘AIDS’ for that matter. Just a decent bag of skin that doesn’t try to insult my superior intellect with an amateur love game. Of course some things should continue to remain a mystery including any and all digestive gesticulations, and detailed chronicles of how they’ve come to be.

4. Humorous. I enjoy my playmates, well-endowed, in a comical and possibly literal sense. Making me laugh is easiest route to crossing the moat unscathed, and entering the castle. That is an analogy for intercourse, for those not paying attention. Laughter will also cause the tiny shards of shrapnel, ketones, and mint collection of swiss army knives that protect my heart, to melt. 

5. Be Ryan Gosling. 

The End.




Welcome to my Taylor Swift anthem… “like totally throw your phalanges in the air Single Bitches!” 

This is a highly requested topic that I’ve been hesitant to address because I didn’t want to face the cold, harsh, bitch slap of two EPT lines reality. But sadly, whatever little gum droplet of hope resided in my chest cavity has been silenced from years of Bobbi beat-down-Brown abuse and a colorful addiction to trans fats. 

Disney lied. Hollywood lied. And now we must take our dildos to the streets in protest…or something. This isn’t news to some people. The cat lady in the basement-level studio had the right idea all along. We’re all better off drinking malt liquor in the comfort of our own seclusion while watching reruns of Law and Order: SVU (a brilliant TV show that is an accurate portrait of lust and love in the real world).

Emancipate yourselves from the illusion. Just go the route of a brave, beautiful amoeba. Alternately, you may also go the route of perpetual bachelor George Clooney, and have sex with running shoes on and a duffel bag methodically placed near the door. 

This is not my sad girl swan song, but instead, a carefully researched anthropological dissertation on a human ritual with a cult-like following, whose believers are marching into a pit of misfortunate delusion. #TaylorSwiftforPresident2016


Guess who’s back? 

I’m feeling very spirited tonight in a no holds barred, “I’m going to fuck the world in the face” kind of fashion. I’ve been a hollow shell of a carbon sliver, as of late. I could offer a variety of excuses ranging from anorexia-induced-by-poverty to a sinus infection, but no doldrums a dash of narrow spec antibiotics and a medium-sized penis can’t cure. But I digress…

I’m in the process of a life makeover. I thought I would share the steps in this intricate procedure to inspire your transcendence into bleeding awesome from every synapse in your misshapen torso. 

Step 1-Trim the Fat

This is a blanket term applicable to all sorts of game plans from diets, to managing a company, to circumcision… Regardless, it is necessary in this transformation. I like to call this “anthropological lipolysis”—cut out people that have yet to contribute anything positive to your life, cut out any feelings of inadequacy, cut out relationship baggage, cut out any Facebook friend that induces an eye roll. All the unreasonably negative influences will endure an “ethic” cleansing—and you will emerge waif-like and glowing, like an absinthe fairy or the ghost of Michael Jackson. 

Step 2- Educate Yourself

Inspired by the recent elections and election-based clamor, I was confronted with a cold, harsh reality… there is a surplus of stupid on this planet and proliferation of said stupid is inevitable. Irregardless of political preference and personal agenda… bitches be makin’ no sense. And since my power to influence is about as potent as a Smirnoff Ice, I decided to at least invest in my own education. Thankfully this routine pairs ardently well with my ADD: 20 minutes spent catching up on current events (no I do not mean TMZ), 1 hour spent with TED talks, Sagan segments or an NPR stream, 1 article comprised of tech-psychobabble (a la Techcrunch or HuffPost), and I Google anything I don’t understand (reality TV synopsis included). 

Step 3 - Believe In Yourself

I like to call this section “How to Get Your Dick Sucked by the Universe”. Insecurities are like viruses that compromise your ability to figuratively “get it up” in any productive or reproductive situation. In a world of Victoria’s Secret supermodels and Pulitzer Prize winners, it’s tough to truly believe that you are someone of value. But once you start doing so, everyone will follow suit. Self-fulfilling prophecy, damnit. Get some. 


It’s officially, official… I am old.

So I thought it appropriate to impart some wisdom on you trick-ass zygotes because Mama loves you.

1. As you grudgingly enter your mid-twenties, you may casually throw around words like ‘cougar’ and ‘botox’ as a joke, but let’s be real. You’re just trying to cushion the blow for when comedy, reality and gravity converge.

2. That dead-end, low-paying job will slowly start to grate at the corners of your soul. How you deal with this is key…
DO: use the motivation to move on up in the world.
DON’T: find solace in the loving arms of a brick red sunburn and a litter of cats.

3. Your body will slowly start to lose things you’ve relied on, like the ability to cure a hangover in less than 36 hours. Thankfully there are helpful solutions: 100 mg ibuprofen, a Bloody Mary and a scoop of under eye concealer. 

4. You’ll start to have go-to’s, habits and a “schtick”. These are good things, unless they consist of: PMS thunderstorms, wearing a size 0 when you’re really a size 6, and using Facebook as your therapist.

 5. Sunscreen, night creams, sex and water are your friends. Trust me, I still look more like a pedophile’s dream than a California raisin. 

6. Learn to let things go—as your brain slowly degrades into silly putty, you should really focus on what’s important. Rid your memory bank of your ex-boyfriends, all frenemies, the 2000 election results and other upsets.

7. Be nice. As your face starts to look like Wuthering Heights, it might be second nature to invoke your right to be unnecessarily cynical. Just be nice, Bitch. 

8. Ignore the advice of sensationalist media. Fashion mags and tabloids, god love them, have no place in your decision-making process. At this point, you should really be able to discern a good decision from a bad one. You’re old enough to know better and too young to blame senility. 

9. In your mid-twenties, your body will start to reject certain “histamines” like: bullshit, fake friends and the ability to ‘not’ cry during commercials with puppies/babies/shoe sales. Just invest in a ShamWow for your tears… you sad sack.

10. Live every day like you’re Chuck Motherfucking Norris on bath salts and life is a flimsy sheet of Balsa wood. 


PSFU REQUEST: How to be good in bed

I’m not an expert by any means, this is mostly advice I’ve gathered from Dr. Phil, National Geographic photo documentaries, and old episodes of 90210. I apologize in advance for the vulgarities and such, but we’re talking about plow town not hometown buffet..

Alright hombres, before you expel your meaty man-turret make sure the orifice attached to the girl you are dick grabbing at, actually wants you. Yep, consent first my friends…the #1 misstep in rape. 

Step 2—try to temporarily erase every slow-streaming internet porn you’ve ever watched from your memory. Be yourself, but more awesome. 

Step 3—a little foreplay, tequila and a condom never hurt anybody. So come prepared. Bonus points if you pre-game with a small protein based meal, a thimble of gatorade (for electrolytes) and a grain or two of viagra. It’ll keep the stomach and ammo fully loaded throughout the fireworks display.

Step 4—cute/nervous/shy are all fine adjectives to embody until the pants come off. Once you have a (consenting) female in your bed/backseat/inside a clear glass elevator, literally animorph into a fucking velociraptor. Get all Jurassic Park on that shit. You don’t have to kiss every misshapen freckle on our bodies and tongue fuck a constellation across our backs. Not necessary my friend. If you want it, let it show. Pound away like you’re literally trying to forge a shelter between her legs to avoid being eaten by a herd of famished zombies. 

Step 5—try to avoid being a jack-hammer, when I say bone like you’re trying seek sanctuary inside of her chapel, I mean fuck with gusto and passion. Sex her down like you’ve been stranded on a desert island for 6 days and she’s a bucket of ice cold salvation.

We’ll leave the technique overview and demo for another post. You’re welcome everyone!

As for females, get naked and try not to fall asleep. This is literally the bare minimum of sexual adequacy. To really spice things up bust out some Macarena dance moves on him, but at a slowed 45 frames per second.


Dear Bureau of Automotive Repair,

I’d like to report an injustice of sorts, a fuckupance on the part of a shoddy auto center that has yet to know the depths of my first world wrath. My car decided to take up smoking, on what I can only describe as a Snoop Dogg-like level, a few fortnights ago. I swiftly took my car in for the automotive equivalent of a prostate exam to make sure the pipes were pumping liquids through magnificently. After throwing down more money than my organs are worth in Mexico, they sent me off a brand new radiator, 4 new tires, a tank of canola oil and some D’s on that bitch. 

The next day, my car came down with another wicked case of the Cheech and Chong and left me stranded on a busy highway. The incompetents at Sears couldn’t even manage to summon a tow truck, or an apology, or even a morsel of compassion for their misstep. AAA finally arrived to handhold my baby back to the Cunt Nuggets at Sears, only to have them install another brand new radiator. Without a hint of remorse, they sent me off yet again with a brand new radiator that they artfully reminded me “cost more than the previous”—and a “you’re welcome” for the thanks I did not give for the craftsmanship I did not received. 

And yet again, el carro decided to flare up on the freeway and spit a dangerous amount of motor ejaculate, as I contemplated just driving that motherfucker off a cliff. Unrepentant still, Sears couldn’t roadside assist, and AAA had to again come to my rescue in the middle of fuck-this-wilderness highway. 

Today, my car is still in the shop (after 2 weeks of services, 0 follow-up calls and 4 separate visits) being “really fixed this time”, even though my car’s insides have corroded into metallic ground beef. I still haven’t received even a half-hearted apology for my time and money wasted, or a solution/plan for my little pavement fucker.  

I now realize there are literally thousands of cheaper solutions for my vehicle that would be better or equivalent to the service provided at Sears. Solutions like: set the car on fire, submerge the vehicle in a large body of water (preferably an ocean), travel with explosives and a chain smoker, play exhaust pipe roulette with a variety of random objects, trade-in the engine for a macaroni collage, indulge in a light-hearted game of bumper car with a big rig, play ‘Chicken’ with the center divider..

I’m not sure how you go about reprimanding auto centers, but I demand justice, along with a refund, a Range Rover, a beer cozy and maybe a pine-scented air freshener. 




Oftentimes, my dear friends come to me for advice on topics that I have no fucking insight on whatsoever. It’s like asking Charlie Sheen about sobriety or Charlie Brown about unadulterated optimism… no dice my friend, no dice. 

Psfu request: I asked this girl out, now what? 

If a female already said ‘yes’ to your formulaic attempts at being charming, you’re more than likely on the right pathway to laying the wood real thick…

Step two- the perfect date. From what I learned back in my dating years before the misanthropy and paranoia set in, you want to dip into her interests and also offer a date with the following elements: adventure, conversation, an opportunity for you to showcase a life talent, and alcohol to cushion the general awkwardness of the situation. I advise that the talent be thumbwrestling (non-sexual) and the libation be tequila (sexual).

Potential fantastic date ideas (if you ask me) include: belly dancing lessons, aggressive playground jump roping, a cocktail scavenger hunt, erotic pie/cake eating contest, underwater boxing, cross-state hitchhiking, extreme couples plastic surgery…

Yes, I know, I’m a beacon of hope in the flaccid waters of celibacy. You’re welcome.

Step three- don’t be a fucking weirdo. There really isn’t a more eloquent way to say it. Mind your boners and manners. Keep things hygienic ie: shower, brush, floss, deodorize, manscape. I’m serious about the manscapage, if we can’t see it, we assume it’s not there…

Step four- be the non-fucking weirdo version of yourself, and you’ll be fine. There is literally nothing worse than someone who is disingenuous, besides a wonky boob job or  a side-hug. Be your darling little self you sperm repository, you got this. 


Today is a momentous day for your favorite little twisted trollop. This post is devoid of humility, and is designed to inspire jealousy, rage, and aggressive high-fives…

I am OFFICIALLY done riding Sallie Mae’s fiscal gang bang train of student loan debt horror. 

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Top Ramen for padding my checking account and small intestine. I will miss the sodium induced sleep nightmares and water-retained boob weight. 

As a result of so much ass-up-face-down time due to relentless financial pummeling, I have a spinal tick that inspires several interesting dance moves. So, thank you for that.

Thank you Costco for providing multi-pack products catered to the ambitious yet impoverished, this may or may not include your offering of 100-count boxes of toaster strudels, toilet paper, condoms and hunger-satiating packets of splenda. A girl can never be too prepared. 

Thank you Forever 21, for providing top notch hooker swag for cheap. In this economy, dressing like a street-walker for street-vendor prices has its benefits.

And finally thank you Master Sallie for keeping me relatively featherweight over the years. Despite my off-brand oreo, spam and ethanol based diet, I’ve still managed to maintain a molecule-like size because I simply can’t afford to be a fat fat. 

Zero fucks shall be given today, as I unabashedly give myself a verbal ass pat. I worked hard to get to this convergence in time where working 3 jobs while maintaining a perfect party attendance record has finally paid off.



I truly believe that everyone needs a verbal fist pump every now and then. Sometimes life, the economy, that episode of the real housewives, or whiskey dick, may get you down, but I am a firm believer in high-fiving yourself on a regular basis. So I dare you to write a list of all the things that make you the coolest human being on the planet, and let the haters hate, because having a boner for yourself is nothing short of brilliant. Take a cue from me, and take a self-esteem viagra… 

Why I am awesome:

-Sometimes I let my breasts decide what I’m going to wear, regardless of an impending tornado, hurricane or dress code. They know best.

-I always assume I have the biggest hypothetical dick in the room and treat everyone accordingly.

-I walk in to and out of work meetings like there is a big rig truck exploding behind me.

-I am classically trained in sarcasm and have an incurable case of cynicism which I like to label as intellect.

-I am devoid of any social grace, compassion and ability to emote, and yet I’m still a better person than you will ever be.

-I have the diction of a demagogue and will inadvertently circle jerk that fact all over your unassuming face. 

-I eat like I’m preparing for hibernation and dress like someone paid me to pop out of a birthday cake.

-Without makeup on I look like a deflated Margaret Cho, but I will still pull more guys than you.. because I am unwaveringly charming and I own a pair of glasses that shroud my entire face.

-Underneath all this hostility, glitter and stripper pageantry I’m actually a nice person… possibly.

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