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… 

#imstillhotthough

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.

PSFU Love

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. 

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 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 whose 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?