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 request: Uncomplicated sex

After many years of riding the Fucktown Express Train liberally, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as ‘uncomplicated sex’. Sex is loaded with implications, politics and semantics that reach far beyond the act of fist pumping genitals. Each step in the unraveling process carries with it at least two dozen mind-boggling puzzles that leave us in a platoon of pornographic perplexity.

Should I leave the lights on? Do you really want me to punch you in the face? No, that doesn’t really feel good… Should I text? Should I call? Will you think that I want to wear your mug as a mardi gras mask if I ask for a glass of water, instead of high-tailing it home within 2 minutes of seminal expulsion? 

There are so many do’s and don’ts. How did such a simple human act become such a shitstorm of complication, shame, regret, and awkward perfunctory sexual advances. 

If you’re too casual people assume you are a soulless conglomerate of promiscuity. If you’re too responsive, le genitals retract out of fear of your Bounce fabric-like clinginess. Lose, lose. 

I have no wise words to guide your sexual tidbits to perpetual bliss. This may be the most depressing post to-date, but as a self-proclaimed psychologist and a self-learned physiologist, I have done the leg-work, the research and the A-B multi-variant testing (nerd joke), and have no brilliant conclusion to splatter all over your hopeful faces. I suppose it’s asexuality until a proper solution reveals itself.  

 Good luck out there, champs.

Dear Mrs. Claus,

After many years of unrequited present receiving, I am finally aware of my misdoing. My fealty resided in the wrong Claus beneficiary, and I can only offer my irrevocable condolences for such a misstep. I know who wears the big red pajama jeans up in the North Pole, it’s you, it’s always been you.. 

So I’m sending you this lovely letter to unburden my wish list for this Whoreliday Season. After a year earmarked with saintly deeds, alcohol induced revelations, and high-fiving hobos that look like Jesus, I truly believe I deserve a sizable endowment in return. 

Besides the usual request for a yacht-ful of cash, as well as my own yacht aptly named ‘The H20 Commander’ or ‘Water, You My Bitch Now’, I have a few other prezzies in mind…The cold winter nights have left me chaffed and chapped, and instead of using a heater or wearing a onesie, I prefer a more creative heat source like a friendly Bengal tiger to cuddle with or a comely NFL player who’s sole purpose is to embrace me as I succumb to melatonia. 

I would also like to be awarded with my very own Party Rock crew, much like the eccentric pop sensation LMFAO. It is very important that my gang of degenerates retain a constant blood alcohol level of .2, have matching tribal face tattoos, and be entrenched in glitter from every conceivable angle. 

Finally, I want you to hide a walkie-talkie in Broncos’ quarterback Tim Tebow’s bedroom, so that I can pose as Jesus and prank call him at all hours of the night. I will of course conduct my pranks with integrity, because I dare not mock the devout…

I’m already waiting patiently under the boughs of a synthetic Christmas tree for my gifts. I’ve also fedex-ed a Yule Log-shaped dildo to the North Pole as a token of my appreciation for all the gifts I fully expect to receive.

Mistletoe gropings and kisses,

PSFU

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. 

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

There comes a time in every little girls life, when you have to say “Fuck you, ass-hat”, and take those sweet cheeks eastbound and down.

And NOW, is one of those moments. I’d like to commemorate it with a rant because there is nothing I enjoy more than shoving my half-baked pretension down your pie hole.

And much to your dismay, I’m not referencing a cheating boyfriend or a girlfriend who “omg totes wore the same dress as me”. I’m referencing my very own grown-up job. I’m 2.5 ulcers deep and really over working for my manager who is a sorry excuse for a carbon footprint. To add insult to more insult, I’m running out of artful ways to verbally express my contempt for said penile implant.

So here’s my notice of ‘peacing-outage’. I realize some of you may actually try to send this to my boss or may think, what if he finds out? Well, if you do send it, you will forever live in the shadow of my awesomeness and you will live out your life as the human equivalent of a pile of festering dog shit on a hot sidewalk. Cool beans?

Dear ****

I’ve fantasized about my moment of resignation, ever since you asked me if I was sure that it was a ‘website’ and not a ‘webcite’. Our subsequent encounters only served to sharpen my desire to want to jam a stapler into my left eyeball. I thank you for the immense amount of self-control you’ve empowered me with. It is remarkably difficult to not kick you square in the taquito, every single time you inhale. And although, I have enough terrible things to say about you to fill all of the empty alcohol bottles and condom wrappers in Tara Reid’s basement. I leave you with this…

Someday, in the not-too-distant future, I will be a millionaire. And not one of those benevolent son-of-a-bitch millionaires that plants trees and drives a whole family of Priuses. I’m going to be a complete snatch about it. I’m going to gather the fattest stack of bills I can hold in my oompa loompa-sized fist and I’m going to totally smack you with it. I can’t imagine a more humiliating defeat for you, other than your complete lack of talent and overall potato shape. It won’t even be a violent slap, but the echo of humiliation will live on forever.

Peace out Dickbox! I’m gonna urinate on your swivel chair!

Psfu Rapture…

As a simple girl with a secular education who learned about virtues and values from the Air Bud movies (1 through 3), I didn’t know much about the magical rapture. In fact, before last week I thought it was a new music genre or some kind of anal fissure.

Boy was I wrong.

Yet judgement day came and went, and I was deemed unfit to ride the express train to H-town in Jesus’ knapsack. So it goes.

I found it particularly rude that no one in my general vicinity sublimated, as it took the fun away from shouting “wanna see a magic trick?” to passersby. I also thought it a wee bit unsettling that ‘my friends’ were so doggedly convinced that I, of all people, would ‘definitely still be here on Monday’. 

I’ve been rather saint-like, as I’ve been filling my time with intellectual masturbation and trying to finger bang a new tax bracket. Perhaps my metaphors could use a little spiritual finesse…but everything else about me is downright holy. In fact, I’ve been the recipient of multiple absinthe and champagne baptisms. To add to the proof of my religious fervor, I told my gay hairdresser I was going for the boho-Jesus look. I can also turn water into crystal light pink lemonade, and tequila into unplanned pregnancy.

I don’t appreciate being stood up by the rapture. If you’re going to make promises, at least have the lady balls to follow through. Although fear of demise is one hell of a sexual conduit. ”Screw condoms baby, Scotty’s gonna beam us up tomorrow, let’s rage.”

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!

PSFU request: What are you like in real life?

Autobiography time, motherfuckers.

I am a 24 year old female and the proud owner of a sharp tongue, quick wit, and 0 out of 9 sexually transmitted diseases. I like interjecting sexual anecdotes and references into my tirades because I have the maturity level of an adolescent boy.

My closet looks like baby gap for hookers, and I have a propensity to overspend the laughable amounts of capital I briefly claim possession over.

I dislike my job, mostly because I have a hard time taking orders from people that have cranial hemispheres the size of peanut halves. But I manage to work diligently, as I am saving up money for grad school and to further my collection of fetus-sized whore clothing. 

My itunes collection mirrors that of a hipster, but I didn’t have the affluent and uncomplicated upbringing necessary to cultivate a superiority complex and an incurable bout of suburban rage. 

I am educated, articulate, and will rub that in your face whenever and however I see fit, but on most days I try to be humble about it. My hobbies range from vegetating to surfing, and of course writing hate mail to Ann Coulter. I have no routines or habits, because I am insufferable and enjoy making my own life as difficult as possible. 

I am constantly plotting something at all times. I have an overactive imagination, paired with an abundance of insight. I would make an excellent detective, as I am impeccably observant and partial to donuts. Consequently, I’d also make an excellent obese criminal. 

I am generally well-mannered until I drink tequila, in which case I turn into a rapist. I am very comfortable in my own skin, thanks to many years of latent athleticism, mild eating disorders and week-long drug binges. (kidding, mostly) I like the color glitter, skinny dipping at the beach, and making furniture with my staple gun. The only place my neurosis surfaces, is in my compilation of desktop post-its. I can play music by ear, and cook food by taste, but refuse to do either. I sign the ‘for’ section of my checks as “indentured servitude”, because I like to worry bank tellers. 

I am actually not an asshole at all, but I do enjoy writing like one. If I acted like I wrote, I’d be a bajillionaire by now. Be thankful little plebes that my actual ego hasn’t amassed to the size of my psfu ego, or the multiverse would be my bitch. 

PSFU Request: Rebecca Black

The ‘Friday’ song has swept across the nation, garnering it a top spot in the iTunes store. There has been many-a-panty-in-a-twist over whether or not this girl deserves flack for her vacuous melodic abortion. If you haven’t heard the song yet, I would recommend avoiding it completely. It’s like watching the video from the Ring. Once you watch it, a Hot Topic employee will sneak into your room and make you listen to screamo, then drown you in a well. (I’m pretty sure that’s what the Ring was about…)

After listening to it, I suddenly had the impenetrable urge to cut my ears off and mail them to Siberia… Thankfully, the urge subsided once the video concluded. This is most definitely the worst song anyone has ever made, ever. And I’ve heard Pink’s whole album…And yes, Gagaloo, I get it. Give the kid a break, she’s only 13…. blah blah. But look at Bieber Christ… He crawled out of the womb already talented and shit. Even Zygote Bieber could write a better lyric than “gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal”. I’ve seen more depth in a soup spoon.. 

But in all fairness, Rebecca B. is a somebody, and I remain an angry anonymous nobody.. c’est la vie, my little escargots. We live in a topsy turvy world, where the more you suck at life, the more you will succeed. So I suggest to you, precious reader, to keep on sucking to get ahead at life. I’ll let you read that any way you want…

And to you miss Rebecca, now that you’ve usurped the attention span of the American populace, try to write some better music. The Friday song is literally giving me a brain impediment… And I need my logic and ability to reason, to prevail over the Church of Scientology and Mel Gibson.