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. 

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.

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.

YOUSE MAH BITCH NOW, SALLIE.

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.

It’s been far too long since I’ve stood on my soapbox and preached about something frighteningly unimportant. So here we go…

As a life update, I’ve been called in to audition for an adventure-based game show a la Amazing Race and the likes. So here is what I plan on telling the producers so they select yours truly for the chance to win a 50k cash prize.

- I have the highly evolved survival skills of a honeybadger and the bro-like aggression of an Africanized honeybee. 

-I have attended and survived two Nordstom Rack Shoe Sales without being stiletto-impaled by an overzealous anorexic or trampled to death by a militant group of affluent middle schoolers. 

-I always have an exit strategy or plan B—whether I’m escaping the crippling grip of a stage-5 clinger or stifling a raging apartment fire that may or may not have been caused by a combination of child-like curiosity, intoxication and easy access to chemistry kits on eBay….

- My adult onset ADHD paired with my sugar-based diet will result in pure TV gold. 

- I’ve always had a knack for finding creative ways to enter or exit a room, as evidenced by my birth. I have camcorder proof that I shawshanked my way out of my mother’s womb using only a chicken bone fashioned into a shiv and a smoke bomb.

- I have the adventurous heart and spirit of Columbus minus the whole aggressive syphilis and hatred for Native Americans. 

PSFU- underestimations

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? 

Dear sir/madam,

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.

<3 
psfu 

I’m back losers!

Like a bear (of the homosexual variety and not the ursus genus),  I needed a brief period of hibernation.

My proclivity for trouble has been off the charts recently. I’m not sure if it’s a symptom of trying to fastidiously cling to my fleeting youth.. or if it’s because my cosmo ‘how to live your life rectal thermometer’ had the naughty box checked off…

Request time motherfuckers!

Listen up, 

I know we’re kinda facebook friends.. or maybe we shared a cup of Hi-C and tequila at a party freshman year… or perhaps I fell onto your crotch at some point when the promptings of my PMS, a bucket of red wine and the threat of impending spinsterhood were far too much to bear… 

What I’m trying to say is that there is indubitably some context to our connection.. But you need to back off, sir/ma’am/future state senator. I’m just not that into you. If you couldn’t tell by my utter lack of acknowledgement to your ‘pokes’, ‘texts’, ‘smoke signals’, ‘helicopter dance moves’ or ‘mortality’.. I’m really not interested.

When you multi-bang my phone, email and status updates all day, not only do I become increasingly disinterested, I am also forced to assume that you want to cut my face off and wear it to your next birthday party or ship my head to Brad Pitt in a box… 

Get what I’m saying?

Let me break it down arithmetically in case you are a) Asian, or b) able to borrow one for a minute…

The sum of ‘you liking me’ is incongruent to the sum of ‘me liking you’. In fact the sum of ‘you liking me’ is exponentially larger than the product of ‘me liking you’ AND ‘me giving a flying fuck-nut that you are even alive’. Please take the derivative of the new inputs given, catch my tangent, and kindly fuck off. 

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…

Dear Boss,

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. 

PSFU Request: Stage 5 Clingers

There are dozens of unattractive qualities that us mere mortals possess, including those that are bred deep in the under belly of insecurity. Clingerism is one, fortunately a curable one if you practice as I preach. Start every morning with a hearty breakfast and a bushel of high fives in the mirror… Repeat the last step as you peruse your short list of life accomplishments, including not dying in your sleep and such. 

As a member of the vagina subset of gender classification, you may think it’s ironic that I have a distaste for clingers. But contrary to popular belief, even females would prefer if you left your saran wrap likeness at the door…please? If I am busy, I am busy and no amount of whiney coercion can clear my schedule. Please stave off your incessant texting if I just met you 25 minutes ago, it leaves me with the impression you will show up at my door with a scalpel and duct tape so you can fashion a mask out of my face. 

If we go out on a date, we are not officially official the next day. We are not mayflies; don’t rush it, compadre. The latter is unsettling as well, if you don’t call for 3 weeks I will forget you exist. Let’s just find a happy medium between 1-504 hours, shall we?

I understand it’s tough, as the promptings in your scrotum lead you down the path of being a clingy motherfucker, but I advise you to seek solace in a bottle of KY and a hanky. 

I understand there are multiple ways to reach the victims of your unflinching relentlessness, but I personally don’t enjoy the communication channel gang bang when you text, fb message and call me. 

I realize this post will likely scare everyone away, thereby leaving me alone to die in subleased apartment with 100 cats I’m allergic to. So it goes..

But heed my fair advice ladies and gents, desperation is not very attractive. You don’t have to abide by specific dating rules my MTV-generationers, just try not to be a creep. 

In lieu of publishing Post #69 I will not be writing about Blum Integers like you all hoped. Instead I will be fulfilling a psfu request that is the perfect compliment to post #68. 

Request: How would you advertise yourself on an online dating site.

Dear Phallus-Wielding Warriors,

I am asian. I know that piqued the interest of at least 95% of you. And not a bad looking one at that… there we go—up 3%. I am equal parts slut and prude, and pride myself on possessing ambivalent personality traits to add to the mind-fuck that is the ‘feminine mystique’. I am vulgar but can mask said vulgarities for special occasions like babysitting and state funerals. I’m a perpetual dabbler, as I have the attention span and direction of a one-winged fruit fly. I’ve been known to skateboard in miniskirts, steal waves from territorial brosefs, paint like a highly evolved 2nd grader, dance like a stripper-robot, and drink like the rapture cometh at least once a week. I’m irresponsible yet completely on top of my shit, and will dazzle you with epic bursts of mediocrity. I shop for clothing in the lingerie section, which I believe adds to my debilitating charm. I also shop for clothing in the children section, to preempt my penchant for buffets and multi-layer fatty foods.

To give you insight on what to expect if you wish to join me on the journey where two become one—where rose petals and hair-pulling become sweatpants and passive aggression, here are a few things I’ve added to my bucketlist:

-organize a medieval crosswalk sword fight

-successfully complete an Edward 40-hands challenge

-make it rain—without the immediate sting of financial destitute

-drive a stick-shift in San Francisco without inflicting pain or death on any hipsters

-party in Ibiza sans ropa

-learn one language per continent.. i’d settle for one convincing accent per continent as well. 

-have one well-spent day, completely devoid of sarcasm….*eye roll*

-enter and leave a shark fight, unscathed 

-write a sick novel, bro

-paint a replica of the Sistine Chapel ceiling but have the one dude, high-fiving the other dude instead. I’m a modernist.

Alright, I’m done bragging about my future endeavors and potential awesomeness. I may just be the absolute worst person you will ever meet. Call me! …please?

I’ve recently been approached by an online dating agency about applying my verbal winning to their blue-balled masses. They believe I ‘have what it takes’ to be an online love guru. They asked me to do my charitable part to help men ‘get theirs’ by writing love letters to future cat ladies with just the right amount of finesse to get their ovaries fist-pumping.

Special kudos to me for writing like I’m wielding a foreskin sword or a mushroom-shaped bazooka. I do agree that I possess the dangerous combination of having a vagina and the borderline abhorrent, vulgarity and speech of a real-life Van Wilder. It’s a gift, I suppose. I declined the opportunity, as it for a lack of a better explanation, gave me the heebie jeebies. But here is a usable template for the clueless men out there that want to boost their editorial appeal and understanding of what women really want.

Hi my name is ____,

I like sex. In fact, I like sex so much, I’ve spent the equivalent dollar amount of 1.5 bottles of protein powder, to optimize the pool of applicants that want a one-way ticket to fucktown on my trouser pony. I understand that sexual encounters can be bartered for things like hand-holding and sushi dinners, which I am willing to offer. Special arrangements will have to be made if said sushi dinners are followed by 2 hours of movie watching of the Rom-Com variety, as such activities deeply sadden Mr. trouser pony. You must be willing to forgive me for my emotional unavailability and sad attempts to dispute said emotional unavailability. C’est la vie.

I’ve been known to be spontaneous, and can prove said attractive attribute by suavely ordering a Jack & Coke one minute and a Heineken the next. Keep the bitches guessing, that’s my motto. I will never ignore you in front of my friends, but I may engage you in a fun game where I pretend you are invisible, while my hommies are present. But please keep in mind, it is just a game, and not a testament to my affection. I enjoy partaking in calorie burning activities including, intense beer pong tourneys and masturbation. I will forever believe that a print-out of my checking account is a sexual conduit and can provide said print-out if it will speed up the panty-dropping process. I will also forever believe my stature and penis are exactly 1.5 inches larger than their actuality, and expect you to go along with said disillusion.

I may respect you and adore you with a Van Gogh-like intensity, but am reluctant to show said affections out of fear for a swift drop kick to my cardiovascular unit. Withhold sex for exactly 3.5 weeks and I will be yours forever. Please message me before I start to bald.

Yours truly,

Hornypants McMidlife crisis

I’ve been buried under my GMAT book, which has been buried under my utter lack of motivation, which can be evidenced by a brand new blanket of visceral fat.

This week’s psfu is a letter of intent I’m composing for a few lucky grad schools.

Dear Sir, Madam, or Shim,

I cordially invite you to the pathway of my inevitable success which will later become a Lifetime biopic called ‘The Makings of a Legend, Bitch’, which begins with you saying ‘YES’ to my application.

Why grad school?— you ponder, as you shake the lint and midlife crisis off of your sweater vest. I want to go grad school because I fail at post-undergraduate life. I have been gainfully employed since I sashayed across the hopeful graduation stage and journeyed into an abyss of financial deficit and student loan bukkake. However, I am not the useful and fiscally endowed human being I thought I’d be at age 24.

I’m not saying that another degree under my belt would make me eternally happy. It’s merely a temporary reprieve from “real life”. Real life being the term I use to describe a terrible 9 to 5 job you were forced into because your handjobsforcash.com website failed to launch. Real life consists of indelible debt, working under a manager with the intellectual prowess of a multi-vitamin, and having zero marketable skills to capitalize on (for Social Science and Humanities majors, at least). So a break from reality, with a different harsh reality, would be nice. After all, isn’t life about chasing down temporary highs and hoping they don’t get you pregnant?

From my understanding, being a grad student can best be described as trying to trudge a tractor through mud… with your brain. But worry not my friend, for I am an intellectual beefcake with a drawer full of Concerta. I’m like the Jose Canseco of geniuses. I also have in my possession, the elitist dicta of a demagogue paired with a delusionoid-complex, and the maturity level of a gerber baby. Qualities I believe every impressionable grad student should expel. And I am more than excited to take out yet another high interest rate loan where the bank has me sign my name in blood.

I’ve attached a list of my sexual references, to attest for my character and devotion to my extracurricular activities. Consequently, this is also the same list as the list of charitable events I’ve conducted… I am and have always been an active student body member, and fully plan on chartering a study group where members pair up with pen pals, who happen to be Tea Party members, and write them hate mail on our study breaks. In conclusion, I am a great fit (that’s what she said) for your graduate program. If accepted I promise to ‘Dougie’ instead of walk to class everyday.

If my application tickles your gooch, get at me!

Today is a special day, my little peppercorns. A double dose of ps-fuck-you greatness, in one episode. The word ‘episode’, being a nomenclature to describe the psychotic meltdown/synapse overstimulation that occurs when I spill my guts onto tumblr for all the world to see. 

I’ve received an abundance of rant requests and questions from you fabulicious readers, whom I adore. So I’ll tackle a few, right here, right now:  

When did you start writing and why?

Well, the stylistics of writing I learned at an early age. I’d say I was about 4.5 years of life, when I learned how to make my cursive p’s and q’s look like penises. But I assume you mean started writing, as in story-telling and inventing half-truths to make fun of everyone I know… 

In high school, my teachers would read my essays aloud for all the class to envy, but I just assumed that this was done to promote ‘jumping the smart girl in the parking lot’ and not because I was a drop talented. I only realized that I was perhaps a ‘writer’ when a chiseled, Greek God-like senior in college told my sweet freshman ass, that I was in fact gifted. It still took me a while to cultivate normal human functioning after that compliment, and even longer still to materialize my angsty world views into neatly packaged sentences for your voracious catabolism.  

What’s your favorite crayon color?

Well, let’s see it’s a tie between ‘stupid-ass question’ light brown and ‘i bet you think you’re cool’ seafoam green. I really can’t seem to settle on just one. Call me fickle.

Why are mothers-in-law bat-shit-insaneface?

Well, no one wants their little poopy-pants turned full-grown nintendo playing college dropout son to be happy with another woman. Who will apply her lastisse and reach the dishes on the top shelf? Who will be by her side as she fastidiously clings onto whatever morsels of youth her wretched prune-fingers can sink into? 

Perhaps, she is jealous of your looks paired with her unfortunate skin unravelings… kindly remind her that you will look like cheerios soaked in a sea of milk someday too. Buy her a bouquet of roses and a pair of spanx, and you will be bffs 4lyfe.

What’s the difference between asian and white women, *winky face*?

Gosh, I’m not sure, as I’ve never been a white woman before. No matter how many episodes of the Hills I watch and Pacific Beach tanning salons I go to, I cannot for the life of me, transcend races.

So I can only speculate. But I can tell you one thing we have in common.. neither race would ever date you, you future rapist… 

What is your dream job?

I’ve definitely entertained this thought before, and I want so many things for my tiny self that I can’t settle on one. 

Here’s a list of jobs that I would love to have/am perfect for:

-Greeter to the gates of hell

-Dateline to catch a predator child-decoy

-Jesus

There are others, but I mean, nothing will one-up dropping the J-bomb, so I’ll stop there.

The holidays are here, my little sugar plums!

Santa Claus is climbing through your window and snatching your cookies up, pre-teens are lighting their joints in the firepit, nipples are ripping through t-shirts, and spiked cider is helping people everywhere relive their childhood trauma…

It’s the most wonderful-latio time of the YEAR! 

Here are a few tips on how to make this Holiday, the best Holiday EVER!

1. All holiday beverages can be supplemented with vodka. Subsequently, vodka can be supplemented with more vodka.

2. If you gained weight, consider wearing a Santa Suit for the rest of the Holiday season. It’s a pretty smooth cover-up if you ask me. 

3. Mistletoe is the rohypnol of horticulture. If you use it, they have no choice…

4. Nothing says holiday spirit quite like affectionately naming your raging boner, a ‘yule log’.

5. Fruitcake is extremely absorbent. It can be used to do everything a brawny paper towel can, but festively. It can also soak up an entire bottle of rum… think about it Paula Dean.

6. Snowballs moonlight as weapons, nutcrackers too… rapists be warned.

7. If you’re scrapped for cash, you can literally wrap your dick in a box and give it to your girlfriend/boyfriend/6th cousin for Christmas or whatever non-denominational terrorist Holiday of your choosing. It’s clever, charming and is only 87% likely to lead to a minor league prison sentence.

8. Girls are 95% more likely to trade sexual favors for presents in the month of December- the census bureau’s wikileak told me so.

9. You can blame your red nose on the cold weather, and not your cocaine addiction.. Rudolph.

10. Save money on your heating bill, by consuming stupid amounts of alcohol to stay warm. Tis the season.

I’ve posted the following ad on craigslist because, I love receiving unsolicited email responses from serial rapists…

Starving Writer for Hire

I am neither an idiot, nor a savant. I can best be described as a social voyeur with the unique ability to convert real life into art, in a seamless fashion. And in this particular instance of course, by art, I mean the tip-tap-typing of what I can only describe as literary diarrhea or vernacular ejaculate.

I excelled in the verbal section of the SAT’s because I was a virgin throughout high school. And I excelled in the math portion because, for a lack of a better description, I am Asian. All of this information is being stated to set a base for intellectual expectations, of course, and not to arouse suspicion of my perfunctory sexual history.

I am a college graduate with a degree in Communications, which of course means nothing to anyone, anywhere, but thankfully charm and heavy-handed compliments have landed me employment for the past 6 years of college and post-college life. In case, you’re having an issue deducing my age from the sufficient amount of information I have released thus far, I am 24. I am gainfully employed as well, but recently my ambitious-nature has bitch slapped my facetious-nature in the face. Meaning— I am ready for bigger and better things, with the possibility of being able to afford rent and food in the same month.

I can write about almost anything, but comedy, sarcasm, music and fashion are my fortes. And much to my own dismay, I am not a hipster as my fortes seem to otherwise indicate. My dream job is to be Tina Fey, but since that occupation is currently unavailable, I’d settle for writing humorous things for your perusal/general amusement.

If hired, I promise the following:

-To make it my mission to personally offend every reader while simultaneously charming them into submission, and eventually luring them into the dark recesses of addiction to my every word. I’m the Charlie Manson of locution.

-To use fancy-pants words and hyphenates to describe simple ideas, because looking words up in the dictionary burns about .5 calories. And I care about your general well-being as a philanthrope.

- To use superfluous amounts of pop culture references, to allude to some sort of abundance of intellect on my part, when really I just watch too much MTV.

-To never disappoint you with my lingual mastery, despite my oftentimes underwhelming life happenings… Because I am a goddamn professional.  

If my abilities meet the needs of your business, then you probably aren’t very fucking profitable.. but feel free to contact me for employment anyway!