Guys, (she pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard like a hovercraft, [what else hovers?] her own writing style a poignant reminder of how her language is being controlled by the patriarchy even as she types. . .)

Um. . .(she’s caught, nothing else flows from her fingers quite like. . .)

Guys. I don’t want to totally change your life right now, but with the knowledge from a science class from years past having a little comeback (like the Backstreet Boys!) in the back of my head, (“individuals don’t evolve” my teacher screamed! That’s basically my research) I have actually solved our patriarchal problem.

We must sever the dicks from our society, both figuratively, and literally. Now you may not think that I know what those words mean, and you are right. But I know that one way AND another, the dicks must go.

I propose the removal of dicks from dick personalities. In this way, all men that are dicks will die off within a few generations (barring underground dick fugitives) and all men that have dicks will then not be dicks. And thus dick-ish patriarchal values will be wiped from the face of the earth. The end.   

#AModestMouseProposal 

(Cause I just watched "Lampshades on Fire" have you guys seen that shit? Cray.) 

omg, I LITERALLY couldn’t blog today, I was sooooo busy. But, like, here I am. Yay me!

Guys, I love being a girl. There is a graveyard of hot pink mascara tubes in my car and it is a fucking masterpiece. (Mascara is the haphazard finishing touch to my devil-may-care chic, thus it is applied hastily at red lights, and the bottle is subsequently forgotten, until it is rediscovered when being joined by another of her sisters tossed aside in my center console. At that point however, it has baked, melted, and reformed so many times in my hot car that I am fearful it will be toxic if applied to my face and may actually eat my eyelashes like acid.)  

My bathroom counter is similarly a work of abstract art. Do I need that many different colorfully labeled and cleverly named products to look this amazing? No, asshole, I just like the way they smell. And sometimes a splash of color that wouldn’t naturally be found on my face is refreshing and oddly flattering to my features in its alien-ness. And skin doesn’t moisturize itself and yes I still get the occasional pimple all the fucking time, five years past puberty whatthefuck? .

So yeah, it’s not like I life (to life, it’s a verb, or a typo. . .) on soap and water. Which brings me to my glamour caveat.

Girls, (and all other people,) you do you boo! If you don’t want to wear makeup or shave your pits don’t let anyone tell you you should! You shouldn’t. You look better with that soft down keeping your underarms cushy anyway! I feel like Lady Gaga right now, but for real, you were born that way and you’re perfect. (I should take a sec to note that if you are a serial killer you might be an exception to this post. Strongly consider the contents of your freezer before continuing.)

Think about who you are right now. Close your eyes for a second and imagine yourself. What’s your flavor? What’s your thing? Don’t think about who you used to be. Or who you want to be someday. Imagine yourself in this moment.

You’re perfect RIGHT NOW. (And by “perfect” I mean that your flaws are endearing and otherwise balanced against your virtues. Real perfection doesn’t exist, dorkwad.) So be you today!  

As the great composer Mika says, “big girl, you are beautiful” and I’m sure he would also say, “awkward string bean girl, you’re beautiful too.” (And “pear shape girl you’re pretty,” and “upside down butternut squash girl, you rock” etc. etc. why are we all fruits and vegetables?!)

So be who you are. Decorate your body or not. But only do it for fun and never do it for anyone but you.

Letters are the fucking coolest. They make words. Like the word "cool." That has two of the same fucking letter in it. It makes me say "cool" instead of "col." F-ing cOOl. #fooforlife 
(Real talk, guys, what the fuck is a hashtag? #whatthefuckisAhashtag)

Quick note about blogging and me: I am technically illiterate.

(By which I mean that I am unknowledgeable on the topic of technology, not that I am technically unable to read and write.)

I wrote a poem!

I did something today

I’m not proud of per se

Had a roll in the hay

With a man who was g—ugly. 

Hello interwebs. I’m A, and B and I just had this A-mazing (get it?) F-ing conversation. (I like letters.)

It was so rad I have to share the transcript with you. (We always have a transcriptionist with us. Don’t worry! We throw him our pizza crusts when he gets hungry.)

B: Hey A!

Me: Hey B!

B: This person I know was gonna write for a magazine, and I was like, I could do that!

(subtext: not a bright person)

Me: Fuck yeah!

B: Then I was like screw that, I could write my own magazine.

Me: Screw that!

B: Then I was like screw that, I could write whatever the fuck I want!

Me: Whatever the fuck!

B: Then I was like screw that, I should just hook the internet up to my brain, and they would make of that shit what they will!

Me: What they fucking will!

So then I stole B’s idea and started my own brain-internet hook up, i.e. blog.

Here it is. Booyah.