I'm So Great: The Rantings of a Jaded Youth

When I grow up, I want to be just like me.

Dear Facebook, December 15, 2010

You must get really tired of getting other people’s mail all the time. I mean, you’d think the previous occupants of your web address would have been conscientious enough to leave a forwarding address when they left. I guess if I was getting hate mail all the time, I would sneak out of town too. Do you even take the time to write “Does not live here anymore” on the letters and drop them off at the e-post office anymore? I can see how that would be exhausting. How’s your mum been? Well, ttfn!

Love,
Stephanie
xoxoxoxoxo

 

Ways To Use A Heart In Your License Plate Without Looking Like A Little Girl December 10, 2010

I S<3ED
D<3HVADR
<3SENAL
F<3
I<3URMOM

 

Fuck Your Car November 10, 2010

This is an open letter to the guy in the new Mercedes-Benz I had the pleasure of driving near on the way to work.

Dear Ass Hole,

I am not impressed by your expensive car. It doesn’t matter how much you paid for it, you still do not own the road. All the laws of traffic still apply to you, meaning that when you change lanes erratically to be the first person to the red light, you use your turn signals; when turn lanes are labeled, you must turn into the corresponding turn lane, NOT rush to the least crowded one and turn into whichever one you need afterwards; and crosswalks are for pedestrians, not the middle of your car, you fucking idiot. You have more money than God apparently. Buy some damn driving lessons.

Stephanie

P.S. No, sir, I will not race your brand new car in my 1996 Isuzu Rodeo. I hope you saw me stick my tongue out at you as I passed you for the fortieth time in ten minutes though.

 

Billionaire Fantasies July 7, 2010

I think a lot about what I’d do if I was a billionaire. Like, I spend way too much time entertaining ideas on the many ways I could squander large amounts of cash, many of those ideas involving gratuitous surveillance of random people. I’d tip waitresses a hundred dollars and buy a limo full of sandwiches to give to the homeless. Fun things that don’t include me having to deal with foundations and crap. Today, I was thinking about how awesome it would it would be to steal someone’s old, shitty car and move all their things into the exact same place in a brand new one. Again, though, gratuitous surveillance is so necessary because I wouldn’t want to go around giving ass holes brand new cars.

I love the idea of paying it forward like that. It’d be so fun. Also, giving gifts rocks. And it’s not like I’d immediately put their old car in the compressor. I’d give them a chance to turn the gift down.

Anyways, I wish more billionaires were cartoonishly lavish.

 

Bruises May 23, 2010

So a friend and I have a habit of punching the crap out of each other when we’re drunk. This wouldn’t be a problem if he didn’t have huge fucking Lincoln knuckles. My little paws never leave the kind of bruises his knobbly hands leave. Unfair! But despite the fact that someone will eventually assume that my boyfriend is the one beating me up and the soreness everywhere, I just can’t stop punching. So I get lots of firsthand looks at the way bruises form and the interesting colors they turn. Wait a second, I never did a post on the Easter Zombie Walk in Eugene, did I? Well now’s as good a time as any!

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So I have a vested interest in bruises in that I’m always trying to recreate them in zombie make-up. For as long as I can remember, zombies have intrigued and scared the shit out of me. For some reason, I have a habit of edging slowly toward things I’m afraid of. I always feel the need to explore in greater depth anything that gives me the creeps. And when I explore those things in greater depth, they become less creepy to me and I inevitably move on to something that still weirds me out.

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Also for as long as I can remember, I’ve loved dressing up in costumes. If I could always be in a costume, I would. When I am inevitably a crazed billionaire, I will never dress in a t-shirt and jeans ever again. These two personality traits have led to several zombie capers, the most recent of which was the Zombie Walk in Eugene, Oregon, which consisted of three awesome people. I fell in the cemetary, we promised not to eat any of the bar patrons, and we had a delicious dinner. Not much of a story, I guess, but it was fun and Ms. Danielle has a much better grasp of zombie make-up than I do.

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Sorry for the convoluted post but I apparently had much more on my delicious brain than I realized.

 

No St. Patrick’s Day Dress for Me March 18, 2010

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I set out yesterday in my sparkly cupcake dress with my happiest bag to find a St. Patrick’s Day dress that would make me the goddess of fertility and rebirth because that’s how I felt. I don’t know why I always assume that I can walk into a Target or a Torrid and find exactly what I want in my size on the first rack, but I do. I really, really want it to be that way. So I walked around in my homemade dress with my homemade bag and expected something- anything– to be as awesome as I am so that I could wear it out. No such luck.

Young fat girls have little choice in clothing. Fat women, on the other hand, are expected to walk around in drab, busily patterned burlap sacks. I don’t understand the logic of this. From a monetary standpoint alone, it only makes sense to make all clothing in all sizes. I know I won’t look good in a thong, but there are stil women twice my size who buy them. There is a market for every ridiculous thing you put out there, so why is it so hard for clothing manufacturers to understand that fat girls will buy cute clothing if it’s there for them to buy? We don’t want to be covered up in shapeless mu-mus! We want something that will hide our trouble spots and flatter our figures. We’re women just like everyone else and we want to look our best. I’m shocked that every time I want to wear something cute and fun, I have to make it myself. And I do. I’m not going to let the fat-hating clothiers get me down. I’ma look good anyway.

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And this, of course, is why I can’t make money with any one thing, lol. I want to do everything.

 

Post Attempt Two – Electric Boogaloo. February 27, 2010

So I was trying to make a post earlier about how I got into a nerdy horror movie conversation with everyone in line at the grocery store today but I did something dumb and it all got deleted, enraging me, and I would like to talk about how I am full of rage.  It’s weird because I’m a pretty happy person.  I (now) live in a clean, not hazardous apartment, have a steady paycheck, and a loving boyfriend, but I still have room to be full of rage about just about everything.  Today, I flipped a guy off while driving to work and while we were stopped at a red light, I realized he’s one of my coworkers and we were going to the same place.  He didn’t even realize I’d done it until I laughed while we were getting out of our cars and asked him if he noticed.

I’m enraged by the silliest things though and I have the same amount of rage for silly things as I have for really personal things.  I think it might be that I was raised on the internet.  The internet has conditioned me to feel hard and then get over it in a matter of seconds.  “I just lost the game?!  Fuck you, /b/!  Ooo, new Zone.  GODDAMNIT, this is lolicatgirls again! I’m playing the game.”  I get so mad every time I see an Oprah magazine.  Why don’t I have a magazine that is not only named after me, but has a picture of me looking cute on the cover of every issue?  Something must be done!

All day long at work I’m alternately enraged and delighted.  Car full of girls pulls up shouting my name.  Delighted.  Someone calls me a retard.  Enraged.  Someone brings me cake.  Delighted.  Someone yells at me because my boss is never in when he’s supposed to.  Enraged.  The only time I’ve ever seen another person mood swing so fast was when Dan Abrams was covering both a child murder and a child being found after being lost in the woods for days.  I swear to god he was alternately jumping out of his seat and crying.  Speaking of Dan Abrams, I asked him to my senior prom and he said no on the air.  Score!

In short, fuck you, Oprah.