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:
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.
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.
Sometimes no matter how many online dictionaries or discovery channel segments you masturbate to.. people just don’t believe you are intelligent. You could finish the Times crossword puzzle and spell out a dissertation on how to solve the obesity crisis in America in one solitary bowl of alphabet soup… and still people will think your brain is the size of grape nut. It’s truly unfortunate.. What powersuit and glasses combo does a brother have to sport to get a little recognition here?
How does one flex their intellectual junk in a way that is genuine, but not arrogant?
I did indeed code that website by my lonesome while shoving fistfuls of acai berries into my mouth as a caffeine substitute. Where’s my motherfucking pat on the back? Maybe it’s not the most impressive thing I could’ve done, but I have a Humanities BA, bitch… and you don’t learn that shit in courses that focus on the rise of the celebrity in modern society. I would appreciate a salute to my mediocrity. I’m not your average nerd that spends 12 hours a day trolling online forums about Ruby on Rails.. I have strippers and cocaine to tend to. Just because a substantial portion of my life is spent in and out of consciousness, thanks to my penchant for champagne showers, DOES NOT MEAN you have the right to underestimate my prodigiousness!
Even that talking bobblehead, ceiling-eyes Bachmann gets called ‘misguidedly intelligent’ every now and again and she believes that the occurrence of pandemics like swine flu are directly related to the political party of the reigning chief executive officer… COME ON PEOPLE!
Big-ups to all the smart people that are pegged as ‘intellectually inept’ by their peers… the second we find a cure for cancer we are not sharing the formula… maybe.
After much introspection, I realized that I value making money more than anything else at the moment. Like a power-hungry i-Banker, I pledge my allegiance to all things material, as the dollar sign is the battery pack to my life. Unlike a power-hungry i-Banker, there is no cocaine or friendly neighborhood prostitute addiction fueling said drive. My desirous heart seeks financial gain to satiate my need to travel and explore every bulbous surface of Columbus’ exploits. I also have an affinity for retail therapy, a drinking problem and an obesity issue in my midst, that require funding at an exponential rate…
So in true psfu form, I am going to write a hypothetical letter to my boss to ask for a raise. Here I go…
As an employee of nearly over a month, I believe it is the appropriate time to ask for a raise. Although ramen packs, off-brand Oreo cookies and rubbing alcohol have kept me nourished and alive, my palate seeks refinement and variety. As I walk past shelves of Pepperidge Farm delights and produce not stolen from my neighbors garden, I can’t help but desire a pay spike or a bonus, for filling a swivel chair in your office. In exchange for said financial endowment, I promise to keep the busy status checked on my gchat, and to not flirt with the elderly lunch lady for extra layers of meat on my deli sandwiches. I will be a beacon of proper office conduct and pledge to only take naps with my eyes wide open, a skill that I am singularly able to provide. My strong work ethic and collection of unflattering sweater vests will weather any future obstacle you choose to micromanage.
Needless to say, I have already proven myself to be a stellar employee. My timecards can deceptively verify that I arrive and depart on-time every day, with the exactitude of a heart surgeon. It should also be noted that I have rejected any and all forms of handholding and tutelage, as I am neither affectionate, nor able to learn how to do anything without the help of youtube tutorials or yahoo answers. My friends have labeled me a ‘go-getter’ as I have the tenacity of a Spartan, a characteristic that will greatly benefit your company. Albeit, the ‘go-getter’ title may or may not have been appointed with the sole purpose of describing my behavior at buffets and esteemed restaurants…
Let us remember that I did save the company a total of 150 dollars this month, as I cunningly fixed the fax machine by Swiffer dusting the output tray and fist pumping the device into submission. If you would kindly sign off on a 50%-75% pay increase, I will gladly flash you some upper thigh or write you a kind, but succinct ‘thank you’ post-it, as a reflection of my gratitude.
Your help in this matter is much appreciated, and will soon be forgotten.