Why I’m The Weirdest Most Fucked Up Woman On Earth

Everything we’ve experienced has made us who we are. No, you have not accidentally clicked on the O Magazine blog. Keep reading, you impatient motherfucker.

So why am I saying such a cheesy cliché? Because it’s the perfect introduction to the questions that I’m asked most often:

- Who ARE you?
- What’s WRONG with you?
- What MADE you?
- Why do I like you so much?

None of these questions could possibly be answered in one post, so I’m going to add stories from my formative childhood, teenage, and college years to my expansive blogging repertoire.

These posts will all be categorized as “Scarred for Life: A Retrospective of Rejection, Failure, and Humiliation.”

Stories in the pipeline include the following:

- How I lost my virginity (in Mexico)
- Why I’ve cried over a boy only once
- My first kiss and blowjob (happened on the same day)

You’re salivating, aren’t you? God I am a phenomenal writer.

Let’s begin with one of my favorite life-scarring stories: my high school prom.

I believe that high school girls fall into one of two buckets; they are either pretty or not pretty. It would be a waste of time to bother assigning other adjectives because 99.9% of them are not confident, not well-dressed, not savvy, not witty, and not nice. The other 0.1% are on Gossip Girl or are fabrications in male masturbation fantasies.

I’m sure you can guess which of the two buckets I fell into – NOT PRETTY.

If you’re half as perceptive as I am about the way the world works, then this should explain a lot of things to you.

Mostly, it should explain why I’m FUCKING HILARIOUS. I hope that you’ve noticed by now that hot girls are NEVER funny, and this is because all the stupid men in the world (which is the same as saying "all men") laugh at any “joke” a hot girl tells, regardless of whether it’s actually funny. So hot girls can never learn how to be funny because it’s a skill that needs to be honed after years of experimentation based on responses to different jokes. Hot girls can’t benefit from this because when EVERY MAN laughs at ALL their jokes, then they end up (1) having no clue what is funny or not funny and (2) (this is even more annoying and repulsive) THINKING THAT THEY’RE FUNNY WHEN THEY’RE NOT!!!

Okay, I’m almost calm now. Back to my story about being ugly in high school.

[Unnecessary Tangent #2: I literally JUST went to a bar and then came back within 1 hour. The music was too loud, so no would could hear me, and what good am I to the world if I can’t be heard?!?! So I decided to come home and give the world more of my words. I now realize why the world’s greatest writers are recluses. It’s not because they – wait – I mean “we” don’t want to interact with society. It’s because we need to be home writing nonstop, without interruption. Could it be that I am the reincarnation of Emily Dickinson?]

I’m back for real this time, and I won’t sleep until I finish this fucking story. I was not attractive in high school (not much has changed), so I didn't particularly look forward to my senior prom. At that point in life, I’d been rejected by every boy I ever had a crush on, and I still had never been kissed. I don’t even think I so much as held a boy’s hand. I was a late bloomer. And I wore Disney t-shirts and no make-up.

So while movies like American Pie indicated to me that all other high school students were planning on getting banged on prom night, I found the whole thing to be rather inconvenient.

Let’s rewind to the summer before my senior year on the day of my 17th birthday. On this special day, I received a phone call from a boy I had been obsessed with since 5th grade. I'm going to call him Pihs (pronounced “piss” and short for Peaked In High School).

Pihs called me to wish me a happy birthday, and we chatted on the phone for at least a half an hour. This wasn’t unusual because he was a friend of mine. In other words, I helped him with his homework (obviously, I was a straight A student and he was not), and I drove him around (until he got his own car and stopped hanging out with me).

The highlight of the call, however, was when Pihs asked me, “If we’re both still single during prom, will you go to prom with me?”

I ALMOST DIED. It was literally a moment I had been dreaming about since the days I carried my lunch to school in a Kero Kero Keroppi lunch pail. Of course, I answered, “Yes!”

Now let’s fast forward to the spring of my senior year. Motherfucking Pihs started dating a ho about one or two months before the prom. Whatever. It’s not like he would’ve shown his face at prom with me anyway. And his girlfriend was one of the Pretty Girls. Obvi. She looked like a Latina version of Jessica Simpson, humongous boobs and all. Even I would’ve ditched me for that hot piece of ass!

And so I had no options for a date. Well, one boy asked me, but he was the fattest boy in our class, and we all know that fat people don't count/matter. I opted to go alone instead.

Prom totally blew. I literally only recall sitting at a table by myself wishing I had never come at all. This is fucking absurd because I'm sure that the prom theme was some stupid shit like "A Night to Remember." Yeah fucking right! My theme would've been "Countdown to Ditching These Losers When I Leave for Stanford University."

And the icing on top? The next day, when I was in line to pick up photos from prom, Pihs’ sister asked me if I had a good time at prom. I said, “Not really.” And in front of at least 10 other people, the bitch loudly asked, “WHY? Was it because you LOOKED UGLY?”

CAN YOU BELIEVE WHAT I ENDURED IN HIGH SCHOOL?

Thank you, Worthless Piece of Shit Who Invented Prom. Thank you for wasting my time and money and subjecting me to stupid twats dancing in tacky Jessica McClintock dresses before giving it up to horny high school losers at the Hilton Hotel.

This excruciating trip down memory lane has given me two interesting new goals, however:
(1) I will wear my prom dress on a date, tell him a virgin, and then fuck him afterward because I think it’s totally twisted, pathetic, and hilarious.
(2) Find out what Pihs is up to these days and post every detail on this blog. What do you wanna bet his job somehow involves a cash register? Ha!

Letter to My Future Boo

Can you tell by my posts that I’m a hopeless romantic? Well I totally am. I dream of the day that ABC Family approaches me about making a made-for-TV romantic comedy based on my love life (Clearly, I would be played by Kelly Hu. Her or Margaret Cho. I can’t decide for I am like their lesbian lovechild.).

Anyhow, the romantic side of me LOVES thinking about the fact that my future husband is out there somewhere living his life. Yes, I know that this is the gayest thing I've ever said, but it's true! I love pondering where my future husband might live right now and what he may be doing at any given moment. Is he spearheading a hostile takeover of one of the largest corporations in the world? Is he fearlessly betting millions at the high roller Baccarat table at Wynn? Did his team just win the World Cup? Is he serving soup at a homeless shelter? Ha! Just kidding about the last one. Like I care about that.

And since I truly believe that my husband is out there somewhere (SOMETIMES I believe this, not always), I’d like to compose a love letter to him that I will one day show him, perhaps after I’ve just conceived our first child thereby locking his ass down for the next 18 years.

Here it goes.

My Sun and Moon,

What the FUCK took you so long? Do you know how many LOSERS I had to bang before you found me? It’s a damn miracle I don’t have herpes on top of genital warts. What the hell were you doing while I was suffering through this, this, this, this, and this? You were off banging 21 year-olds, weren’t you?

And now, finally, at age 30, you’re ready for a real woman. Am I supposed to be grateful? Fuck you! You owe me a pair of Jimmy Choos for every year of my life I spent getting hooched up and wasted at bars looking for your sorry ass. You know my size, and don’t you dare come back with anything shorter than a 4” heel.

I can’t wait until the day we drop Peter Jr. off at Stanford. And you BETTER make sure he gets in with Early Admission.

Now go tell Cook I’m hungry but that I don’t want any carbs tonight.

No, I'm not fucking you tonight. But you can eat my box.

FOREVER yours,
[you WISH you knew my name, bitches]

Isn't he going to be so lucky to have me?

I Admit It. I'm a Puma, Damnit!

Okay, so you know how we all make pointless lists that we use to respond to the question, “What are you looking for in a man/woman/tranny?”

Well, here’s my list, in order of priority (though the order changes depending on my mood, level of intoxication, and level or horniness):

MUST HAVEs:
- Unbelievably funny (=at least half as funny as I am)
- Worships me
- As intelligent as I am
- Amazing in bed
- Ambitious
- Manly / Man’s Man / Take Charge Kind of Guy
- Not Asian (although half Asian would be spectacular)
- Able to eat the spiciest food on earth
- No history of “experimenting” with men
- STD free

NICE TO HAVEs:
- Likes eating pussy and is damn good at it
- Tall
- Dark hair
- Lives within a $15 cab ride radius
- Owns a jet


Totally reasonable list, right? Kidding. I actually do recognize that I’ll never find someone who satisfies this entire list.

So what do I actually look for? Do I end up liking people who satisfy perhaps 80% of the list? 50% of the list? 25% of the list?

No. No, I do not.

This is the bullshit I usually end up being attracted to:
- Younger than I am
- Can’t get it up
- Didn’t attend/finish college
- Doesn’t respond to my calls or text messages
- But DOES send me booty texts at 1 AM


GOD DAMNIT. As a good friend often describes me, “there’s so much wrong with me.”

So, yes, I have horrible taste in men. I’ll admit it. I’m attracted to total losers!

BUT GOD DAMNIT. This only makes me even more confused because it means I’M GETTING REJECTED BY TOTAL LOSERS!

WTF!?!?

I’ll put my suicidal thoughts aside for a moment and provide you with an example.

I was recently attracted to and then rejected by an uneducated, sexually inexperienced, boat salesman! Yes, you read right. A boat salesman. And I shall call him GARJYFL, which is short for Get A Real Job You Fucking Loser.

I met GARJYFL at a bar (the library was closed), and it was somewhat by accident. My feet had been killing me, so I plopped down at GARJYFL’s table so that I could rest my feet and focus my full attention on my refreshing Grey Goose tonic. I actually didn’t even notice GARJYFL at all for the first 5 minutes I was sitting there (it’s hard to see people through the bottom of a cocktail glass that never leaves your lips, even if the alcohol is clear).

At some point, GARJYFL and I began chatting. This is when I noticed that he was actually quite attractive. But he looked REALLY young. And he communicated like someone really young. I felt as though I was talking to the bag boy at Safeway. Or the pizza delivery boy. I literally had to ask myself, “Is this kid even 18?!”

So I asked GARJYFL to show me his ID (you know you’re a Puma when you have to “CARD” the men you’re trying to seduce).

It turned out GARJYFL was 24. Woohoo! Time to partaaaay.

So I brought GARJYFL home for a little play date (Shut the fuck up. I already know I'm easy.)

Big mistake.

#1 I can’t believe I actually brought a stranger home from a bar. Believe it or not, I had NEVER done this before. Damn you, binge drinking! Why do you seduce and punish me so?

#2 GARJYFL was totally intimidated and worthless in bed. He kept saying he was “so nervous” and even asked me NOT TO LOOK AT HIS PENIS as he shamefully covered it with his hand! WTF?!!? The only other times men have NOT wanted me to see their dicks have been because they were “hiding” them WITHIN THE WALLS OF MY THROAT OR VAGINA.

#3 GARJYF’s dick was flaccid the entire night. It was my not my first encounter with a limp dick, but it’s been over 5 years since I’ve seen one, so I really didn’t even know what to make of it. It didn’t even look or feel like a penis. It reminded me of a water balloon. I felt as though the harder I gripped it, the more likely it was to slip out of my hand. His penis was like one of these thingies:




The only bright spot in the evening was when GARJYFL told me that he doesn’t like receiving blowjobs. JACKPOT! I proposed to him immediately after that, but he said “No.”

Anyhow, I felt totally confused after all was said and done. Either GARJYFL was a homo or he was just completely retarded in bed. Or both.

But despite all the mishaps, I decided afterward that I wanted to give GARJYFL another chance because (1) I was intrigued by the idea of being able to play the role of Teacher and (2) I can forgive incredibly hot people for anything.

I was somewhat confident that GARJYFL would call me because he went out of his way to get my number, and I put on a SPECTACULAR show that night. I even left my 5" heels on. God I'm a catch.

But GARJYFL never called.

Nor did he text.

Nor did he return my text.

WTF. IS HE STILL ALIVE? I hope so. And I hope he's doing well. And selling tons of boats. While taking it up the butt.

And this is where I would normally proclaim, "I'm done with stupid younger men!" But I know it's probably not true. And I'll probably have to hook up with many more immature imbeciles before I finally stop.


LESSONS LEARNED:
- Never forgive a man for erectile dysfunction. Unless he's super old and super rich.
- Do not propose to men during your first night together, even if you're kidding.

Dumb Bitches May Be Smarter Than You Think

I’m surrounded by dumb bitches, a species that just does not mix well with me, an incredibly intelligent bitch.

I’ll admit that I’ve somewhat put myself in this situation because of the neighborhood I’ve chosen to inhabit. My hood is actually stereotyped as being populated solely by blonde girls who wear size 0 Lululemon pants and can somehow afford to take The Bar Method or private pilates classes every day when they’re not busy “working” in their “demanding” PR “jobs.” Oh yeah. And these bitches have BIG TITS, too. Fake, of course.

So you can see why it’s easy for me to hate these dumb hos. When I go out to my neighborhood bars, men look at me though I’m wearing a FUCKING INVISIBILITY CLOAK. No, god damnit! No! This is fucking Marc Jacobs and Prada, you stupid pieces of shit! UGH!

And what do the dumb bitches wear? Their usual boring ass jeans and a stupid shirt combination, which is as interesting as the unmemorable and devoid-of-wit conversations that they spew.

And yet each one of them gets approached by numerous suitors all throughout the night! Why is this?

Because they may be dumb as rocks, but they know the simple formula that matters when it comes to locking down a man – a formula that intelligent girls over think because we like to be thoughtful and strategic about everything. But, in this case, intellect and cunning are completely irrelevant because the formula is, in fact, completely simple.

The formula: big tits + tight body + good in bed = woman who can get ANY MAN she wants.

So the Key Variables are:
- bit tits
- tight body
- good in bed

Notice the Tier II variables that I’ve deliberately omitted from the formula:
- Fashionable/stylish
- intelligent
- witty
- confident
- ambitious
- well-educated
- good cook

It’s not that these Tier II variables don’t matter. It’s just that they only come into play if you are lacking in the 3 Key Variables listed above. In other words, if you have small tits, a tight body, and are good in bed, then you’d better either be fucking amazingly good in bed or have a TON of the other Tier II variables up your sleeve. But even then, your success is not guaranteed.

And these variables are where dumb bitches and smart bitches differ. Smart bitches focus on the Tier II variables; dumb bitches focus on the 3 Key Variables. This is exactly why I now believe that the dumb bitches are smarter than I had thought! While they may be worthless in every other area of life, they’ve honed in on what they CAN offer and on what MEN WANT MOST IN LIFE, and they’ve MASTERED those 3 simple things.

Fortunately for all the smart gals out there, mastering the 3 Key Variables is completely within your reach (whereas a dumb ho couldn’t tackle half the Tier II variables if she spent the rest of her simple life trying).

Here’s how.

1. Get big tits. Do whatever you’re comfortable doing to ensure that you don’t have the chest of a 10 year-old boy, whether this entails a padded bra or implants. And wear shit that shows them off! God I hate when I see a girl with an amazing rack that’s covered up under a loose black shirt. What a fucking waste! Just go home, you worthless ho.

2. Hit the gym hard and stop eating. This is perhaps the easiest thing within your control. You actually don’t even really need to workout that much if you just fucking starve yourself like the models do. Subsist on diet Red Bulls and coke. Yes, I’m talking about the powdered form of coke. Kidding. Or am I?

3. Watch a ton of porn. This is how you learn to blow a man away in bed. Master the art of the sloppy wet blowjob, where you constantly look into the man’s eyes and lick his dick like it’s covered in chocolate and squirts out a sweet anti-aging nectar.

Yep, that just about covers the things that men care about most. They haven’t been fucking kidding all these years when they’ve constantly told us that they’re “simple creatures!” And it explains why dumb girls who only have big tits, abs, and whorish sex to offer are offering more “value” than you, the witty, bookish, career climber who is too busy gunning for a promotion to go to the gym and who never watches porn.

And I’m not saying you have to do these things forever. Another thing the dumb hos have figured out is that once they’re married, they can stop putting out (because sex gets old) and let themselves go (because they’re “too busy” taking care of the kids to go to the gym).

Get to “work!” And you’d better invite me to your wedding.

Please excuse me now while I watch hours and hours of free online porn.