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

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

Bad Ass Infants, Anyone? July 29, 2010

Filed under: My Writing,Original Songs — Stephanie Fantastic @ 8:37 am
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I wanted to finish this song before I posted it, but it looks like I never will and I really like it.

Hey little punk, little punk rock baby
Got a piercing
On your labi-aaa
Kickin’ ass and chewin’ bubble gum
Had your first abortion at 18 months
You’re too hardcore for me, little baby
You’re too mature for me, little lady
Punk rock baby, you’re too much for me!

Got a tramp stamp of a skull bunny
Underneath your ACDC onesie
You make your momma cry
When you burp out lies
About where you’ve been

I saw you down by the river, Punkette
Swiggin’ Jack and smokin’ cigarettes
In your skinny jeans
People say you’re unclean
You’re such a naughty girl!


Fuck You, Frankie Valli July 23, 2010

Filed under: Original Songs — Stephanie Fantastic @ 2:27 pm
Tags: , , ,

This is a rough, rough, rough version of how the song should sound like.  I laughed out loud when I listened to it.  I can’t believe how Jewish I sound.  And sorry for the stand-in drawing of me.  I was at work and didn’t want my uniform and haggard face in there, lol.

The lyrics to this song are here.

Edit: Holy crap, this is my 100th post. Longest blog never read, woo!


A Do Wop Song About Do Wop July 22, 2010

Okay, I wrote a song recently but I feel like this particular song needs a preface. I fucking love 50s and 60s music. Around 2000, when I started hating most of the music on KROQ, I turned to 101.1 for The Greatest Hits on Earth. After a couple years, I knew every song they played, who sang them, and all the words and I loved every minute of it.

Then I started actually listening to what I was singing along to. I was unpleasantly surprised to realize that a lot of this great music was about men cheating on women and then begging them to come back, women working really hard to get a man, and teenagers. It wasn’t entirely unlike the music of today, but it bothered me that these men would come right out and say that they loved making their women feel bad and it made them feel good to beat them, and then IN THE SAME SONG ask the women to come back to them. The female singers were just as bad though. Every amazing song Patsy Cline ever sang was about her wandering, ass hole husband. So on that note, here’s my song (and feel free to mentally add in all the Sh-booms and Do-wops):


Honey, you were the love of my life.

Havin’ a boy like you made me feel like I’d done everything right.

And when you left me, all I could do was cry,

And now I’m left to wonder…why?


Fuck you, Frankie Valli

You slept with anything that moved

Don’t tell me to hang on

Don’t sing it in a song

Put our problems on the lips

Of every teenage girl who wisheeeees

We were through

I’ll hear no more, The Beatles

You’ve got 8 new girls a week

The words you gush sound true

But you say, “I love you”

To every giiiiiirl that you meet

Don’t fall in love with morons

Be more selective, ladies, please

If he tells you to run when you break up,

Says you’re too proud when you won’t put up with his smut,

And sings it on the air for all his sluts tooooo hear

You’re probably dating an ass hole

So stop pining away

For that one one fine day

When he’ll want yoooou for his own.

I’m tired of golden oldies

Tellin’ girls they live to get a man

Fuck you, Frankie Valli

And fuck do-wop too.

It could use a little work here and there, but I like it and I’m working on trying to upload what it’s supposed to sound like, but WordPress doesn’t like my phone’s voice recorder OR video format. Picky, picky.

Edit: I just put it up on YouTube.


Working at the Post Office did weird things to my creative mind March 4, 2010

Fabulous Fabiola and Magic Malik
Lived in a cottage on the shore of the sea
Invented tricks in the morning
And then took their tea
On the porch of the cottage on the shore by the sea


Funeral March

Filed under: Melodrama,My Writing — Stephanie Fantastic @ 1:50 am

A sixteen-year-old girl’s funeral.  Her stupid friends milling about crying and holding each other.  You never liked them much but here they all are.

And there you are, alone in a crowd of your many friends and family members, wondering what you did wrong.  Maybe this is all a dream.  Did it really happen?  Will you wake up and feel a lingering sadness, then go on with your nine-to-five job?  Filing paperwork, bullshitting customers, tolerating your co-workers.

No.  You’re still here.  Her body is cold now.  She’s wearing make-up she would have hated,  She’s dressed in her Sunday best, which never really suited her.  But she looks so peaceful.  She looks so beautiful.  She looks so unlike herself.  The fantasy daughter you always wanted until you lost the real thing.

Maybe it was the drugs or the parties.  Maybe she felt like she had no one she could talk to.  Who was it that couldn’t be bothered to make time for her?  Was it you?  If you’d told her you were there for her, would it have made a difference?  Or would she have just rolled her eyes, confused, and laughed it off with her friends.  Affirmations of that nature always sound corny; fake.  Like a PSA or an after-school special.

Feelings aren’t really sincere anymore.

Maybe she just couldn’t handle high school.  I know you wish you had told her that it didn’t matter.  High school thought stays in high school.  Maybe if she’d known that after high school was over, she’d be free, maybe she would have let this guy slide.  Then maybe you wouldn’t be standing here, mourning with those who knew her better, those who barely knew her, and those who had never met her.  Maybe she would have missed a week of school and gotten on with her life.