Stalker Credentials

Randomly thought up while getting ice cream with a gay friend who's been scouting every piece of ass that walks on campus.

"Maybe I deserve to get a restraining order, eh?"
"A teacher has to have their credentials to teach, right? So what's a stalker without a few restraining orders?"

Mind you, I am also certified by way of learning disorder to give out terrible advice. My prescriptions come in either hugs, candy, or hours of coloring with crayons.

Hateraid Tidal Wave

Ok, so despite the fact that I'm up to my eyeballs in work to finish at school, I've been OBSESSED with The Hipster Grifter. In short, she's basically a run-of-the-mill poster child for Urban Outfitters that managed to swindle, lie, and cheat a couple people out of some dollars ($60K) and some credibility (Vice magazine hired her on the spot based on her manufactured charm and one "bloviated"* chest tattoo. Not surprising.)

The thing that gets me the most about this chick is the fact that she screwed a bunch of people over based on some pretty inane attributes: Working as a pr tool for a masturbatory art-rag, owning terribly self-conscious tattoos (almost equivalent to people who wear 'effing fedoras at night), and bootlegging more comedic material from Family Guy than a Chinese lady hawking burned DVDs from a suitcase!

However, with the way things proliferate and spawn via the internet she'll somehow get some kind of monetary deal and basically become the hipster equivalent of Tila Tequila-- replete with all the vapid social constructs for the "Parody-of-every-other-generation-Generation" to stuff bills down her proverbial, hand-job-giving mouth*-- ultimately prolonging her obvious sociopathological problem.


* the word "bloviate" was used by this chick in an apologetic email she sent to people who actually felt bad for her. But its all tea and sympathy till she makes you cash checks that bounce, lie about having cancer, and you know, be wanted by the SLC Police on multiple theft and fraud charges because she was too perfect a mix of insane/lazy to just be responsible, honest, and get a job.

* her catchphrase has been "I want to give you a hand-job with my mouth <3 Korean Abdul-Jamar."


Conversely, I want to punch her face with my foot. ESPECIALLY since her craziness has been eating up all my internet time. Can someone just turn her in to the cops already?!

I am Dr. Phil of Drunk Dials

Steven only calls me when he is drunk (I don't blame him, as my humor is only fully appreciated by brains completely soaked in booze.) The funny thing about him calling me the other night, was that I still to this day have not yet saved his new number on my cell phone-- so every time he calls I mistake him for A) some random O.G. that I've been exchanging texts with, who has not yet fully realized that I'm not his homie by the name of 'G-Money' or B) Ingraham, who has decided to cut off all communication with me because of my extreme flakiness (this is true) and that he wanted to remove the only hilarious female ethnic to ever grace his white-male existence (also, TRUE!)

Anyway, I totally thought Steven was the aforementioned Ingraham and got all hopeful and happy that he wanted to talk to me again-- which was obvs. not the case. However, despite the slight confusion and initial drunken chuckles, we were able to have a nice long conversation about how fucked up his obsession with ex-girlfriends is (i.e. how calling them to leave long, whiny, guilt-filled voice mails-- we concluded-- is not the best way to get her back) and ultimately, how much we've both changed since we were 21 (and for the most part, not with each other any more.)

Maybe I was so kind with him because he's on the other side of the country and no longer in my life (maybe?) or because so much has happened to me in terms of forgiveness, patience, and death in the past 4 years-- that I can't afford to keep chips on my shoulder any more. For the most part, it felt good to console and empathize the very same person that I had some of the worst fights in my life with. It felt good to return back to the friends we used to be; staying up late with a bottle of Gold Label, talking obsessively about Star Wars, legos, and failed relationships-- but being fully aware that we are never, ever meant to be together again.

I told him that every moment we're alone is for the betterment of ourselves-- because no matter who you've been with or for however long, the road after you die is one made all by yourself.

He told me that was the most "Dr. Phil" advice he'd ever heard.

"I'm glad I called you."