Hating on Bohemian Girls In LA

I was invited to go to Burning Man by a group of girls I barely know, which they claimed would be a free trip in a fancy expensive camp. I figured I should branch out and hang with some “hot girls” but quickly realized I would never fit in with their kind.

They asked me to meet them at a “feather shop” to pick out “costumes” for the trip so we can all “match.” Reluctantly I drove 20 minutes to a feather store and upon arrival the girls were joyfully putting together piles of feathers to make Mohawks, wings, hairbands, shoulder decorations and whatever else they were thinking to fake being bohemian for the week. I can only imagine, but choose not to, what Coachella preparation was like for them. They were all dressed in expensive clothing and had designer bags but were planning on dressing in costumes for the week and being something they aren’t.

Within a few minutes of being in this store and walking up the aisles to select feathers as clothes, I knew this was a terrible mistake and left immediately. I felt sick knowing I would have to spend 5 days stranded in a desert with nouveau riche whores on Molly pretending to be hippies in raver boots while house music blared and dust blew in my face. I’m not about that life.

Later that evening I went to a Soundgarden/Nine Inch Nails concert and was surrounded by depressed social rejects in all black making minimal effort to dance. I felt immediately at home – Not only because the music was awesome but mainly because nothing about being there felt fake. The contrast between the two lifestyles were very clear and I didn’t have to go to a desert to have a spiritual experience to figure it out. I just had to listen to good music and see a guy on meth making weird faces at the concert to know the truth.

It was just like the moment in Clueless when Cher realized she loved Josh. I don’t fucking like house music and I am not the type of girl who wears feathers at a festival. Sure everyone should do what makes them happy – but I will not go to burning man and dress like some LA bohemian bitch that I am not. I will never join any of these LA girls in their boho chic styles in neutral tones like brown and khaki, with fringe hanging from my clothes, cowboy boots and large floppy hats. Sure I technically didn’t have to dress like that – I could dress however I wanted, but burning man doesn’t even appeal to me. Why would I want to be in the desert for 5 days with a bunch of strangers on drugs? I’m sure the art is cool but since when was I willing to go to any lengths for some fucking art in a desert?

I instead will wear black, hate everything around me and upset people with this post who will tell me I am a hater. But yes. I am. I am hating on these types of girls in LA. Somehow I know they are the reason for the drought, because I’m not getting wet by any of this shit.

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When taking a dick pic, take it from the underside. It makes it look bigger and often features a daunting vein, which says business. Blood flow business.

When guys eat a lot of food it’s hot.

Don’t talk shit about other guys, it doesn’t read well.

Stop looking at me in the eyes when you go down on me, this is my moment not ours.

Bitches LOVE flowers.

Bitches love compliments.

Bitches like almost getting stitches aka dominate these bitches.

Girls don’t like being called bitches.

We both know it’s never just the tip.

Be confident and if you’re not then fake it. I have this conversation with girls all the time about wanting confident guys. But don’t be cocky or too cool for school because that’s not hot.

Make a point to talk to my girlfriends if you don’t know them when we are all hanging out.

Don’t talk about how rich you are. It’s not hot. Just be cool and nice.

Please don’t ever complain about your weight or the way you look.

Hold the door open for me. Anything that has a door. Car. Restaurant. Your bedroom. Chanel.

I don’t like burping. I don’t think other girls do too and if they “don’t mind it” then they probably do it themselves. Class up bitch.

Tell me how good I look dressed and undressed.

Contrary to popular belief, it’s actually not funny when cum gets in a girl’s eye. It hurts and their eye will be bloodshot all day (so I’ve heard).

Go down on girls and then make out with them because they’re bi-curious and it’s like killing two birds with one stone but no girl dies and she just gets to see what her pussy tastes like.

Make sure your nails are trimmed.

You can’t just stick your dick inside a girl without making her wet and don’t assume she is without touching her.

Don’t jack hammer my pussy. Don’t go from side to side like your cross-country skiing.

When pizzas on a bagel you can eat pizza anytime.

Don’t tell us our friends are hot. We already know they are.

Calling girls to ask them out instead of texting is dope.


Don’t try to make us jealous because you’re insecure.

The second you put your dick inside a girl: BEWARE of EMOTIONS to follow.

I don’t believe in game playing or rules. If you want to see someone then call them.

Don’t buy deep V-necks unless your Greek then I guess it’s cultural or whatever.

Don’t tell us about your past relationships or girls you’ve fucked. Really don’t care.

If we are on a date and you run into someone you know and start talking for awhile, introduce me so I don’t stand there with nothing to do and have to text someone, which will be my gf to complain about this moment.

Never and I mean never shave off all of your pubic hair. It doesn’t make your dick look bigger.

Don’t say your going cum over and over and then take 10 more minutes.

Don’t try to secretly put it in my ass by fucking me really hard and “accidentally” slip because that really hurts.

One time a guy asked me when he was going to see me again at the end of a date and it was really cute. Doesn’t work it we don’t like you though. Then it’s like UGH never!

If you don’t go down on a girl you’re a terrible person.

Send me a dick pic so I can show it to my gf’s and have something to talk about so we feel like we are so Sex and the City.

FYI – No one likes Miranda on Sex and the City. Just a random fact.

Don’t take too long on purpose to answer texts because that’s stupid and we are texting our girlfriends wondering what we did wrong.

Clean your fucking bathroom. Why are there so many little hairs on your sink? It’s fucking gross.

If you don’t need to wear Magnums, please be real about it and stop. Just stop.

If you pull out a Magnum we feel like Charlie Bucket discovering a Golden Ticket.

Guys who have big dicks – when you don’t mention having one and it’s a discovery for us like Lewis and Clark on a sexual expedition, that’s so cool. And let us do the whole “Oh my god you know it’s big!” and just pretend back, “is it?”

If your dick is small, make a lot of money.

If your dick is average, be really good in bed.

If your dick is big, you can treat girls like shit for the rest of your life and they will keep coming back.

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A Non-Sexual Virus Raped My Throat

It’s a Tuesday afternoon. I’m wearing a XXL Dennis Rodman shirt from his 1997 film Double Team with Jean Claude Van Damme that I paid $95 for at a thrift shop in the East Village – which is typical because I’ve never even seen the movie and am now one of those girls who’s wearing something that has no idea what it is besides soft.

Ricola honey lemon cough drop wrappers surround me like girlfriends after a break up with an abusive boyfriend as I’m sprawled across my couch, legs splayed over my Organic Modernism coffee table, which doesn’t go at all with the rest of my living room décor. I finish off a mediocre side order of mashed potatoes from Canters and wash them down with a glass of Cherry 7up, an underrated charming Shirley Temple-like soda.

I’m sporting a pair of semi-comfortable army green yoga pants that are baggy in the crotch but restrict around the ankles that I got for free from Equinox for getting my friend to join. I usually wear them for no more than two hours because of the ankle restriction, but am too much of a hoarder to throw them away and too narcissistic to admit maybe I just have cankles, so eventually I take them off and sit with my laptop on the top of my lap and let it heat up my ovaries for backup birth control because the pill is only 99% effective.

What’s dope about all of this is no one can make me feel bad about chilling so extremely hard during the day because everyone wants you to stay in and rest when you’re sick. You’re treated like a princess. Side Note: I don’t want to be treated like a queen; I want to be treated like a princess because it sounds younger and sexier. Only when sick, will I allow my body to rest along with my resting bitch face at this level of maximum relaxation. Otherwise I’m normally resting bitch face with slightly active “recovering” bulimic body.

When you’re sick, everything becomes acceptable. Not washing your hair after a workout, telling a valet that agrees to parking your car for free “you’ll be right back” but taking an hour, nearly running over pedestrians in a convertible while blasting ignorant rap music and not making a big deal about it, lying in bed for 5 hours eating the chocolate chips you were supposed to use to bake cookies, taking photos of yourself with a plastic bag over your head. All acceptable.


When I went to the doctor yesterday, she looked at my throat and said I had a virus that was “going around” but didn’t need any antibiotics and should take some OTC shit like Mucinex. Wack. I only slept for 5 hours and begrudgingly took Nyquil super late after a not-so-cute coughing fit which could’ve been avoided I’m sure with some codeine if she had been so bold.

This morning I worked out with a trainer and had low energy because of my lack of sleep and proper suppressants. It was a comp’d session, so the extra delay in my sets must’ve been annoying for him but I was also sick so it was deemed acceptable. The entire time he was hitting on me, which was annoying so I had to be kind of a bitch to repel him, which is also reasonable when someone you don’t like is trying to fuck.

Example of his bad game:

The trainer was stretching me after our workout and while my legs were in the air he eagerly inquired, “Do you like sports cars?”

“I guess-“

“I drive a Porsche,” he interrupted, waiting for me to get wet. He looked down at my pussy which was concealed in tight black Lululemon stretch pants and realized after that line it was most likely drier than a 55 year woman with a yeast infection in Joshua Tree and looked off into the distance, not focusing on anything in particular, just the sounds of the weights clamping against the machines and recalled he didn’t actually have a Porsche. I didn’t even feign a response, I just looked off into the distance myself, catching my reflection in the mirrors and thinking about how hot I look when I’m sick.

I love the victimization of being sick, the helplessness and desire to be taken advantage of physically. I love having many liquids surrounding me that I will never finish: Water, Cherry 7up, Airborne Fizzy Drank, Tea, Coconut Water. A wealth of hydration; slowly tasting each drink and allowing my palette to decide which will make the next round of Who Wants To Be Drunk By Chelsea. Prize: Hydration.

My brain doesn’t feel like finishing this.

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8:48 pm

I just finished what will be my last “real meal” until Monday. I prepared a frozen Trader Joes pizza, which I disguised in crushed red pepper and roasted asparagus because I’m almost positive that no one will be going down on me tonight. Anyone who says asparagus doesn’t make their pee smell weird is a liar and has a fucked up depreciated sense of smell. Sometimes I forget I ate asparagus, pee and wonder if it’s Chlamydia or perhaps a bacterial infection, but then I’m like, ‘Oh wait, its only asparagus’ so I call and cancel my Metrogel prescription at Rite Aid. 

Tomorrow I will be starting a juice cleanse for three days. It’s the first of hopefully never again. I don’t like eating healthy. I love pizza, pasta, hamburgers, French fries, burritos, anything fried and/or covered in sauce, butter and ketchup on everything, cookies, brownies, straight pounds of sugar like cocaine; anything that would make a bulimic want to throw up is what I like. No promo. Note to self: get to the dentist and clean my toilet.

I’m purely doing this to look super skinny for when I go to Cannes. I don’t really care about cleansing my body. I was an alcoholic and drug addict for 10 years; do you think I care about how I treat my body? Once I even let a white dude with dreadlocks finger me. I’m purely doing this for an Italian guy to notice me on a yacht in the south of France and say to his friend, “Hey do you think her breasts are real with that body?” Yes Giacomo, they are. They’re real and they’re spectacular. Thank you for noticing.

Nah, none of that is true.

(But it is)

In all seriousness I just want to look good. No problem with that. Just feeling aspirational. Not putting-positive-post-it-notes-on-my-mirror aspirational like a girl in her mid-late 20’s who realizes that all of her friends around her are getting married but she can’t seem to meet anyone over 6’2″ which is a strong personal preference so she just spends every night alone and then has a text conversation with one of her girlfriends who tells her that she needs to be putting positive vibes out there and she wonders if that’s done with a post-it note like she’s seen on her mother’s divorced friends mirrors in their bathrooms, just starvation aspirational. What’s with those post-it notes? Does that shit work? How do you put out positive vibes? Asking for a friend.

Here is the “account” of my cleanse aka my thoughts while being famished for 3 days.


10:08 am

Just got out of bed and I’m hungry as fuck. I have smeared eye makeup all over my face but leave it there because I feel edgy every time I look in the mirror. I wish I could eat an English muffin with butter and a cup of tea. Instead I’m about to drink some green drank. Within 1 minute I spilled half of the bottle all over my $3000 couch (someone bought it for me). I am sort of livid but serial killer livid, which is calm as fuck on the outside but insanely angry on the inside. I remind myself that there have been worse fluids on the couch. I also spilled it all over my Barbie Pj’s and now I’m drinking it naked on the couch and writing. I feel like a sexy advertisement for Juice Cleanses/promiscuous anorexic with a dirty couch. I just spilled more green juice, this time all over my naked breasts. Oops.


10:47 AM

It took me 40 minutes to drink and clean up the green juice. It had cayenne in it which burned my throat and reminded me of my bulimic days when I had food.

11:28 AM

Just noticed my curling iron in the bathroom and it made me horny. Just the sight of it. I’ll take another juice.

11:40 AM

Just realized I’m not eating food today. Hungry.

11:41 AM

Just saw myself naked in the mirror, was pleased.

11:42 AM

Just realized I was single, disappointed.

12:41 PM

I’m so fucking hungry. My next juice looks like fucking mud. I’ve been fantasizing about eggrolls all day and huge plates of Chinese food. Who signed me up for this? Why am I fucking doing this? Everyone else has had lunch and enjoyed it. Roots are disgusting. I feel like a rabbit drinking this. A deprived anorexic rabbit.

3:17 PM

Just noticed how skinny I am looking. I may never eat food again.

4:26 PM
Doubting everything in the world. I want a fucking Chinese feast. Why am I drinking chlorophyll l? Why the fuck am I drinking plants? Why does God think I need so much oxygen?

4:47 PM
Just bought a vintage Chinese dress I want to have tailored. The type of dress that a hot Asian chick wears in a massage parlor in a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. Never actually seen one of his movies though. Thought it would be too racist and obvious if I said a Jackie Chan movie. There, I said it. Did they do a movie together? Does Jackie Chan still make movies?

5:05 PM
Just realized I haven’t eaten anything all day.

5:20 PM
Trying on shorts and they’re all too big. What the fuck is Chinese food. I feel like a sexy 12-year old. Note to self: get in some chat rooms when I get home and see what kind of predators I can catch.

(Some of my favorite HOW TO CATCH A PREDATOR screen grabs:)







5:38 PM
I’ve been in this dressing room for at least 20 minutes and I’m trying to figure out how to fuck myself because I’m so hot and skinny.

5:57 PM
Just bought a dog collar. TGIF.


6:07 PM
I want pasta. I want to eat everything in sight. I am over this. I have no will power or self-control. This honor system is fucking lame. I want macaroni and cheese. This was a fun experiment but why can’t I eat.
Driving erratically. Everything around me looks like food. I hallucinated and thought I saw Usher. Was just a regular black dude in a hat. Wait I must have thought he was Pharell.

6:20 PM

I just almost ate a chip.

6:48 PM
I want ice cream. There’s some in my fridge. I’m freezing.

7:07 PM
I cracked. Eating a handful of tortilla chips. They’re fucking delicious. Food is fucking awesome. The handful is gone. Just ate a second handful. Took the first one for granted.

7:13 PM
I broke my fast because I’m not Jewish.

8:12 PM

Third handful of chips. I never said I was a strong person. I’m tired and have a headache. The salt on the chips tastes so good. They taste like tears.

9:14 PM
I cheated. I couldn’t be honest. I couldn’t hold out. I ate three handfuls of blue corn tortilla chips from Trader Joes. I am a monster. My body will never take me back after I cheated on it. I will manipulate it with another juice. But a cheater is always a cheater and I will be back for more food soon.

10:36 PM
This entire day was fucking stupid. I don’t want to do it all over again tomorrow, but It’s already in my fridge and I don’t want to be a pussy. It made me tired and now I can’t go out. I’m just on my couch drinking Aloe Vera water and watching Netflix. Side effects of cleanse: I wish I had a dog. What’s up with those dogs that always look so wet? Like they fell into a dog bowl of water? Why are they always shaking? Is that a post-rescue thing or….?


10:47 AM
I’m not hungry but there is a plate of cookies in front of me at the hair salon and I want to eat all of them in a bulimic rage.

12:07 PM
The hair stylists at the salon are taking about two dozen cupcakes and willpower. I’m thinking about murder.

1:22 PM

Being anorexic, I mean on a juice cleanse, is so fucking boring. I am isolating myself and ignoring my text messages. I don’t know what I feel like I’m capable of doing. I’m so dramatic. I just got my hair dyed darker. Not sure how I’m feeling.

2:11 PM

Now eating carrots and celery because I don’t give a fuck anymore. Fuck juice cleanses.

this carrot was turning me on. i had to eat it.

this carrot was turning me on. i had to eat it.


2:20 PM

A glass of Pellegrino just smelled weird. Is that a normal side effect of anorexia?

2:24 PM

In other Breaking News: The roots drink is fucking disgusting. It tastes like a dead rabbit that was raped in a pile of dirt. Don’t question this. I just know these things. Too much though?

3:00 PM

Do I have friends?

3:33 PM
Just backed into a fence in my car because I was looking at myself in the mirror. Scratches everywhere.

5:49 PM
Just accidentally ripped the toilet seat cover contraption off the wall in a public restroom. Strong as fuck.


6:54 PM
I want pasta. Why am I doing this? What am I trying to prove? I will eat the unhealthiest food immediately when this is over and never look back.

8:04 PM
I’m so antisocial. I don’t want to hang out or talk to anyone. I just want to be on my couch like a zombie. I also want pizza.

8:47 PM
I really want more of those tortilla chips from yesterday. This whole thing is fucking stupid.

8:51 PM
Eating a pile of chips because I don’t give a fuck.

8:53 PM
These chips are fucking awesome.

9:01 PM
Eating chips and salsa because I don’t give a fuck.

9:09 PM
I regret eating the chips and salsa. My emotions got the best of me. I was in a heated conversation with my friend and had no one to turn to. I turned to chips and salsa and they turned on me.

9:22 PM
Now eating chocolate chips because I’m not supposed to and I like breaking the rules.

9:29 PM
Just realized I have a thing for chips – tortilla and chocolate.

9:47 PM
I just threw up all over my pajamas. Guess I wasn’t supposed to eat.

like that other campaign about girls but this is for hamburgers

like that other campaign about girls but this is for hamburgers

11:34 PM
No one will ever want to marry me with my slutty Instagram photos 😦


1:03 PM
“People who have eating disorders don’t do juice cleanses” -my mom being funny

2:14 PM
I feel good

2:38 PM
It has not occurred to me once today that I haven’t eaten. And that’s cool with me.

3:29 PM
This beet juice got my lips lookin like a Native American found some berries for lipstick

9:45 PM

Ate more chips because that’s what I do on cleanses. Chip cleanse.

11:45 PM

I love my new thighs so much.



10:23 AM

Eating the fuck out of an English muffin with butter

I honestly wanted to go another day on the cleanse but I had my Groundlings class tonight and wanted to have some mental energy, plus one of my boobs was getting smaller than the other. Then the Italians on the yacht may think, “Does one of those breasts look bigger than the other on that obnoxious American girl who has no friends?” Juice cleanses give a great result though. I feel a lot more toned and healthy, but I’m going to probably ruin it all because I like to eat bad foods. Oh well. I will totally do it again but probably not forever.


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EARLY Friday afternoon I got a text from my girlfriend saying we were going to a sex party that night. I’ve heard about these “Eyes Wide Shut” type parties before and have been dying to go to one, purely for an impending conversation piece and voyeuristic experience.

She told me to get a mask, which I didn’t want to do. Masks make me feel stupid. I wanted everyone at the party to know who I was. I wanted them all to know that I was perverse and watching them and wasn’t afraid to admit it.

I wore a black pleated miniskirt, a black long sleeved crop top and a pair of black Mary Jane high heels. All black everything. I was going for the dark schoolgirl look. Perhaps I was a high school babysitter who was going to be seen by one of the fathers of the kids I babysat, who once offered to sneak a cigarette with me behind his wives back when he drove me home one night after babysitting, which should have been an initial sign he was creepy thus leaving no surprise to see him at the party.

I imagined the party would be in a huge mansion with old rich producers and young naïve actresses. People would be having sex on velvet couches, next to aristocrats drinking champagne out of crystal flutes while agents delivered empty promises in exchange for blow-jobs from the young men of West Hollywood. Men in Venetian long nosed masks and capes would be sacrificing a girl from Minnesota who was new to town and waiting for her big break. Literally. I don’t even know what it means to sacrifice someone, but I was hoping to find out.

We rolled up to the house on Mulholland around 11pm and pulled into the Valet line, which was run by a team of quick working Mexicans, as if this job depended on them getting a Green Card. A golf cart was waiting to take us up the steep driveway to the house. It was lightly drizzling. We joined two young Indian girls and a redheaded man wearing a mask. An attractive married couple that ran the party was working the door and let my girlfriend and I in for free. I think everyone else paid a couple hundred dollars.

I eagerly walked in only to be disappointed less than a minute later. About 75% of the party wore masks and the 25% which wasn’t, should have been. We immediately made our way to the bar and got a drink, surveying the crowd and passing judgments. Only one dude was in a cape, which bummed me out. A few girls who were “hired slaves” walked around naked in Japanese bondage rope. The girls were later auctioned off for $200-1400, but I don’t know what people did with them. Later on, I did see one of them pouring candle wax on her client, unimpressed that it was the best activity he could come up with.

The party was fairly dark, except for a giant fish tank, which illuminated the hallway. The house was decorated with futuristic furniture: a lot of Lucite and tufted velvet chairs in interesting shapes. It was like the set of the Fifth Element meets Striptease. The men wore suits and the women wore cheap cocktail dresses from Charolette Russe. A lot of the guys had obviously hired their dates.

The party was weak. We walked upstairs and laid on a white fur rug that was spread across a pool table. I can’t resist fur. An eccentric artist wearing a bathrobe and no shoes came out of nowhere and began sketching us in a notebook like caricatures. We allowed it. It drew a crowd.

When we went back downstairs more people had showed up. A lot of the girls looked like gross drug addicts who worked in porn and the guys looked like clean-cut Hollywood losers who can’t get chicks because they’re working Valet all night at the Roosevelt.

I couldn’t stop staring at this one girl who had enormous implants, a blonde weave and a face of really pale foundation with no eye make up, probably because she didn’t want to look old, but we all knew she was.

Out of boredom I let some weird masked guy who’s breath smelled like bad artesian cheese (but didn’t see any at the party) tie me with bondage rope to a giant leather X in the center of the room and whip me in front of everyone there. SO WHAT? I FELT LIKE GETTING WHIPPED. I DIDN’T GET ENOUGH ATTENTION GROWING UP. The way he elaborately tied me up made me nervous because I didn’t know how hard he would beat me. But it wasn’t bad at all and it was basically just a stupid performance for the peanut gallery.

After I was beat, we walked over to the dining room, which had a sushi table set up. I hated how this party had sushi because they probably thought it was a luxurious concept, but it was tacky and I didn’t trust any of the raw fish at the party. A 19-year-old blond girl lay naked on the table talking too much and was obviously high on meth. She described herself as a girl from “Maine in the woods” and had a really nice and compact vagina. Just saying.

I heard screams coming from the other room and discovered a fat naked chick fanning herself in a Marie Antoinette wig and Venetian mask being fucked from behind by a girl in a horse mask with a strap on. She was very overly dramatic while she was being fucked, shouting things like, “Splendid!’ “Lovely!” “Harder!” I watched for 5 minutes with no expression, but internally plotted ways to murder them. I mean, plotted ways to get my friend ready to leave the party.

I made small talk with a group of annoying European men who managed DJ’s and drove a white Porsche. I watched a Dominican girl in a bra dance alone for hours on Molly. Later a French “celebrity” and his porn star girlfriend promised they could make me squirt in under 10 seconds, but I just didn’t feel up for the challenge.

An ON-DUTY Los Angeles County Sheriff joined the party. He put his handcuffs on me for a minute. He wanted friends so badly.

Then we all watched a drawn out sex show in the “Lions Den,” which was a red-lit secret bedroom. It was a lackluster show and over enthused by the girl. The sketch artist was in the corner of the room sketching the couple fucking, which was amusing.

I spoke to three older women in their 50’s who told me they frequent parties like this all the time. One said her forehead usually has “dirty whore” written across it, while everyone walks up to her and fingers her and she loves anal hooks. Nice to meet you.

We left around 2:30am and went to Jack in the Box. I got curly fries.

I woke up the next morning feeling hung over from Red Bull and lack of sleep and vomited.


Selfie from the next morning of me vomiting

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I HATED WORKING IN REAL ESTATE: My ambitionz as a realta


I don’t like working in sales. I’m only good at sales when its the young bodies of immigrants looking for a better life in America. They meet me down by the Seaport, someone seemingly nice with the ability to walk in six inch heels and a strong growing Chanel collection. I promise the pursuit of happiness and freedom if they come to my dungeon in Midtown and work for 16 hours on end for the elite business men of New York, exhausted and starving, but still determined to be fed something other than bodily fluids. The trick is to just give them Pedialyte instead of feeding them, it gives them electrolytes and makes them skinnier.


None of that is true actually except that I don’t like Real Estate.


ONE DAY I was talking about how manipulative I am, when someone suggested I try real estate. So I worked at this really shitty Real Estate office for about a week, then decided I would just get my license so I could work at a BO$$ Office and make a ton of money.

I imagined my life in Real Estate would become being chauffeured around in an Escalade showing all cash buyers from the Middle East million dollar listings while wearing 6 inch YSL Heels (or Louboutins if they were Russians or music producers),  tight pencil skirts and sexy camisoles. It actually turned out to be me working in an office with a bunch of frat guys who sexually harassed me and I never made any money. Sorry if the dudes I worked with saw this, but you know what you did. It wasn’t cool either. I know I put out this vibe like I’m a down B, but sometimes I just need to wear that low-cut shirt to make that sale with my customer or not to feel bad about dressing like a school girl in the office, which I knew was inappropriate, but I couldn’t let go of all these pleated miniskirts I had for SS2013.

I “worked” in Real Estate for about six months, aka ate all of the free office candy, made “important” phone calls to “potential” clients and attended fancy open houses. The only thing cool about working in Real Estate in New York City is that you have no idea what’s going to be behind a door and you get to see a lot of amazing places you would have never known existed. Plus you can get keys to almost any available apartment in the city, so I kind of felt like the Mayor.

Something I liked about my company was that they offered a Neighborhood Certification program, where you take a class to learn about a neighborhood and then have a 2-hour walking tour. I learned a lot of really interesting stuff: stars on the side of brick buildings serve as tie rods, you know if a lantern in NYC is original if there is a crest on the side, Washington Square Park has thousands of dead bodies buried under it, Minetta River flows two miles underground from Washington Square Park up 5th Avenue.

BUT, working in Real Estate for me was a waste of time. Making tons of phone calls and arrangements for someone who doesn’t even follow thru with renting an apartment deserves a beating. It would take hours to set up appointments and show apartments to someone and then they would cancel like I wasn’t the mayor of NYC, when I had all the keys to prove I was. 

The WORST thing about working for a corporate company is that I didn’t feel like I could be myself. I essentially couldn’t post anything on the internet and that felt like it was stifling my creativity. It actually made me feel really depressed. There’s nothing worse than feeling like you can’t be yourself because you signed some dumb contract which states you have to be boring as fuck. So, I had to quit that. I’m about making crazy videos and writing whatever I want on the internet and I’ve never been happier. I need creative expression and real estate didn’t allow that. I don’t want to “creatively” make an advertisement about an apartment. One time I got in trouble for posting on my Facebook that I would “show an apartment in a hot outfit” and was told to take it down. I’m not about that life.


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Global Warming is No Longer Hot: Ferrari’s Are

For the past week I’ve been waiting outside Al Gore’s Nashville mansion with a bottle of chloroform and a washcloth. I rented a warehouse about 20 minutes outside of Nashville in the small town of Franklin, where a projector sits in an empty room with a chair. The plan is to kidnap Al Gore, show him my PowerPoint presentation on how global warming is a lie and hopefully end his campaign on climate change thru the groundbreaking evidence I’ve discovered.

There’s no doubt that the climate is changing, but at a much slower rate than Al Gore and Scientists from the Intergovermental Scientific Association of Climate Change are telling us (ISACC). Al Gore doesn’t have energy panels on his roof, his house has the air conditioning on year round according to the past 6 months of bills from Con Edison (went thru his trash), he has a constant running waterfall in his living room with imported ice glaciers from Alaska, and he is also driven around in a Hummer daily, which is his favorite way of riding to the movies. He’s won the Annual Nashville Christmas Light Display Challenge for the past 5 years in a row, a very prestigious award, yet no one has questioned that there are over 10,000 lights on for the entire month of December from dusk till dawn. While we all wish Al Gore was wasting his own energy at the gym, he is wasting it in the ways he tells us not to live.

Scientists have been trying to convince us that the temperature of Earth’s atmosphere is becoming increasingly warmer due to greenhouse gas emissions, however, these gases have been decreased immensely by people driving fancy cars which are no longer trapping the heat due to a new discovery in Platonic Atmospheric Consultations on a global scale done by Intergovermental Scientific Association of Climate Change (ISACC). Scientists have observed that exhaust pipes and engines on sports cars are emitting carbon dioxide in a less threatening way than even hybrid cars which has significantly reduced pollution.

This overlooked unearthing has become quieted in more recent studies, yet have you noticed that scientists currently all have luxury sports cars? I recently spoke with Vinnie Lamagutzi, a Ferrari dealership salesman in San Fransisco, California, who confirmed that 75% of sales last year were all scientists. “More and more scientists are driving Ferraris and Lamborghinis to work because they create an air of success and are more socially acceptable now that the previous gas guzzling rumors has been deceased,” Lamagutzi doesn’t stop there, “the ISACC hasn’t made the announcement yet to the public, due to wanting first pick at the 2014 models of the Ferrari LaFerrari, the Prancing Horse’s eagerly-anticipated limited-series special, of which just 499 will be built. Scientists across the globe have already pre-ordered 437 of the LaFerrari’s taking the bulk of limited edition luxury model.” Lamagutzi also confirmed that Al Gore is one of the customers who pre-ordered a LaFerrari. “You gotta get it while it’s hot,” he finishes, looking out into the distance at nothing in particular.


Earth’s temperatures aren’t getting hotter, just the cars are.  Not that rich people care about buying sports cars due to global warming, but their girlfriends and wives do. It became cool and trendy amongst rich women to pretend they care about the environment. Rich women don’t have much to do all day, so they just have lunch at healthy cafes, taking Pilates and driving Prius’. It’s become quite common amongst high society women to compare their carbon footprints in between bites of their $32 quinoa and arugula salads just because Julia Roberts made a press statement one time saying she was concerned about the environment. These women talk to their husbands and convince them they can’t get a sports car because it would be embarrassing to drive up to Equinox West Hollywood in one, so the Scientists are happily getting first choice at the new inventory. In conclusion, Al Gore and Scientists need to stop pretending Global Warming is occurring, so we can all have a chance to drive Ferraris without feeling bad for contributing to carbon dioxide, when we are really just contributing to our self-esteem and confidence.


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If you walked into my apartment, the fridge is empty but the bathroom shelves are fully stocked. I don’t collect art, I collect products. They don’t even need to be expensive, I just need to surround myself with tons of products. Long bottles, short bottles, clear bottles, attractive labels in neon colors, oils, lotions, balms, creams, cremes, serums, sprays, spritz’s. Anything you can apply to the exterior to make my interior into feeling superior is my personal savior.



I don’t discriminate when it comes to purchasing: New London Pharmacy, Avignone Chemists, Clyde’s Chemists, CVS, Duane Reade, Drugstore.com, Rite Aid, Ricky’s, Walgreens, Nordstroms, Neiman Marcus, CO Bigalow, Bergdorf’s, Barney’s, Bloomingdales, Bendel’s, Saks, Sephora, Target.

If someone tells me they have a problem, I have a product for that. I am the Genius at the Product Bar if Apple had a Pharmacy. One time I was in CVS and walked a stranger thru an entire skin care regimen. He had acne, so I prescribed a Pan Oxl bar with 10% Benzoyl Peroxide, which is the highest strength without a prescription to increase his skin’s turnover. He just sent me a Christmas card with his new wife and baby and when I saw his clear skin I felt like I had been given a great gift that Holiday season.

I really love travel sized products. Every time I go to the pharmacy I buy something travel sized because they’re cute and I feel secure knowing I have another sizable product in my arsenal. Am I taking a trip soon? Absolutely not. Am I hoarding products? 100%. Do the smaller sized bottles make me feel like a doll? Never thought about it until now, but yes, yes they do.

Sometimes I wash my face and  leave my eye makeup smeared down my face. Last night I was wearing red lipstick and wiped it across my mouth with a brand new white towel and just left it like that because it made me feel like the Dark Knight and I live alone so I can do whatever I want. Who knows what tonight will hold.

I have a $700 La Prairie Cellular Serum Platinum Rare just sitting in my medicine cabinet collecting dust because at one point it appealed me. Now it’s old news. I also have a $80 bottle of anal bleaching gel I’ve never used once – just got it for a conversation piece.

I own 22 bottles of nail polishes, yet I only get manicures because I can’t paint my nails myself. I just wanted to buy them because the colors look pretty in the bottle. I have 3 bottles of shampoo in my shower, 15 bottles of lotion, 13 hair sprays and serums, 5 peanut butter MnMS and like 3 pieces of licorice.

I have two giant plastic container stores boxes filled with products which I haven’t used in years, but I have been hoarding them from apartment to apartment for the past 4 years for security purposes and official product business.

Ma’am I’m a professional, you may want to step back. 

Woman: Why are you pulling me over?

Me: I couldn’t help but to notice you were walking towards the register with that Calgon Body Souflee with Cocoa Butter.

Woman: So what, I like the smell.

Me: Exactly. While Calgon has been collecting dust on the clearance aisles for years, Alba has come up with a new Hawaiian line. Their Cocoa Butter Hand and Body lotion is incredibly nourishing and smells fucking unreal. They also are making ridiculously luscious shampoos and conditioners. I suggest the coconut or plumeria option.

Woman: Your hair is so long. What can I do to be more like you?

Me: Try Garnier Fructis Length and Strength Shampoo and Conditioner for Hard to Grow Long Hair. Also, take Viviscal, a supplement which has been specifically designed to promote existing hair growth from within.

Woman: What about an overnight pimple treatment?

Me: Mario Badescu drying lotion.

Woman: Affordable daily face wash that never fails?

Me: Cetaphil.

Woman: Best face mask which makes you glow?

Me: SK2 Facial Treatment Mask.

Woman: How do I make my bikini line softer?

Me: Exfoliate, shave, Baby oil.

Woman: How do you stay in shape?

Me: Vomiting.

Woman: How do you recover?

Me: Pedialyte.

Woman: What would I do without you?

Me: You would be buying that bad store brand dental floss. Try Oral B Glide instead… it glides so well.


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How Did I Become One Of Those Girls?

How did I become one of those girls with a tattoo on their back?


I’m aware of how it happened because I was “there” (wasted), but where was my conscious when it should’ve been looking out for me? My conscious doesn’t even have my back. Literally.

Last year I got ‘xoxo’ tattooed on the back of my right shoulder and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess at the time it seemed cute but now I hate that I have a tattoo on my back.


Tattoos on backs are for girls that took six years to graduate a four year college (check – but I also transfered twice and lost credits). Tattoos on backs are for girls that wore Bebe in middle school (check). Tattoos on backs are for girls who were fired from being a cashier at Stop N Shop at 16 for tripping on mushrooms (check).  I may as well put my belly button ring back in, get foil highlights, move to Tallahassee and drive a Jetta because I have branded myself  as one of those trashy back tattoo girls.

Or is my tattoo incredibly endearing and alluring?


Brice and Cheryl are married for ten years now and have been struggling in their relationship since their engagement.


They’re walking down the street behind me in NYC. Cheryl doesn’t know Brice is fucking his assistant, Tiffany, who’s 25 years his junior and also has a back tattoo, but of a fairy which he doesn’t like but that’s besides the point.

How can I help you?

When Brice notices my tattoo, it instantly reminds him of  Tiffany and he appreciates it, which unconsciously creates animosity between him and Cheryl who has lost her lust for life. My tattoo represents everything their marriage is missing.

Brice: See that Cheryl? Her tattoo says xoxo. She seems like a very nice girl.
Cheryl: I’m confused dear.
Brice: She wants everyone behind her to know she is leaving kisses and hugs everywhere. What a saint.
Cheryl: I wrote xoxo on an email to you and the kids last week
Brice: But it’s not on your fucking back. Jesus Christ.

They are both silent for the rest of the walk to their apartment, a $7.5 m condo in a stunning 14-story glass building with landscaped courtyard on Mercer street in Soho. The building is a collaboration between hotel visionary Andre Balazs and famed Pritzker Prize winning architect Jean Nouvel. It is an extraordinary testament to modern luxury, elegance, progressive architecture and ingenious engineering

Brice confirms an order for a custom made shark Seabreacher thru email in the elevator.


11:20 pm. 

Brice is “asleep” on the couch in the living room, but is actually waiting to watch Cinemax after midnight because he doesn’t want to order porn on their cable bill. His laptop is being fixed at the Apple store due to viruses from Internet surfing.

Cheryl is in the bedroom awake as well. She’s texting with a co-worker, who has had a crush on her for years and constantly makes remarks about how beautiful her legs look in Wolford stockings. She has never communicated with him outside of the office, but tonight she wanted to feel special and it wasn’t happening from Brice. She pops an Ambian and turns off the lights to go to bed, but not before ending her text with, “xoxo.”

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