Guess who’s back? Back again! 

It’s been a hot second since we’ve posted here. The Young Alcoholic has been getting some consistent pussy and has moved out of his mom’s basement and MilesLark has doing his muffuckin’ thing in Seattle, so I guess that just leaves me as the loser who needs to blog to find purpose in her sad, sad life. Aight, then. 

I read through the old articles and missed you: the possibly-non-existent reader I’m speaking to through this screen. I’m not even sure this website is even live anymore. No matter; I’ll talk to you anyways because why not? Perhaps you’ve missed us. Perhaps you’ve been bothered by our sudden departure. If so, sorry. Life happens. But I shalt not ignore you further. #yourlifematters

Tonight, after drinking a bit, I listened to Alicia Keys. If you do not know who she is, pop on YouTube and give her a listen. She’s a pianist goddess who fundamentally shaped my childhood. I’ve only been to a small handful of concerts in my life; hers was the only one that has moved me. Her soulful voice, her unbridled beauty, her effortless cool factor; I’m still totally enamored. 

Her last full length album was 2012’s Girl on Fire which did well commercially, of course. But, in the course of discussion, we’re not referring to that. We’re referring to 2001. I’m about 9. Songs in A Minor dropped. A pretty, talented, songstress rocking immaculate cornrows with a deep, raw, and passionate voice crooned her way to multiple Grammy awards. All the while being the Fedora Queen. Take that Jason Mraz and Bruno Mars, you little bitches. Take notes. 

Her first album soothed my burgeoning soul. It takes me to a place of serenity; where I was young and naive, in a good way. It reminds me of a beloved friend I spent countless hours with in Brooklyn, NY, whose body is resting peacefully. It reminds me of my father, whose relationship has been carefully mended and still in the process of healing. It reminds me of me; before the anxiety and the responsibility of young adulthood. When things were simple and all I had to think about was how I could braid my hair to look like Alicia.

I’m 23 years old. 23 years old. Ahhhhh! I can’t tell if that is old or young or if I’m just insanium in the cranium. All I do know is that I’m struggling to find purpose, struggling to collect my notions of self, and that Alicia Keys is a fucking goddess whose music I love so much and I wish she could give me a hug and tell me in her beautiful, crisp, smoky voice that everything will be okay. 

You, dear reader, don’t have to reblog, tweet, share, or like this post. Log onto Spotify or YouTube, and type in Alicia Keys. Even if you’re not into this particular genre, give her a listen. She speaks to everyone; it’s cathartic. It’s like she wants to help you. Go ahead, make her day and mine too. And, I’ll see you later. 

Hollywood: “Football Is Bad For Your Health.”

Now that Will Smith is playing Dr. Bennet Omalu in the new film Concussion, all of the sudden we’re all freaking out about the dangers of playing American Football. It’s way too easy to get cynical about every single aspect of this situation. There’s layers to this: 1). the NFL is more evil than Big Tobacco  and the Galactic Empire combined, 2). the information that has been brought fourth by recent studies on concussions and the affect of multiple concussions on the human brain have showed some terrifying results and a direct connection to playing football, 3). nobody has really cared about the dangers of multiple concussions and the increased risk of suffering from severe brain damage and playing football until now because Hollywood has made a fictionalized explainer version of it to spoon feed us information, 4). the American public seems to be more consumed by this issue than all other more pressing matters that we probably should address before we get around to the number one sport in this country. There is a lot to get butthurt over here. As a football fan myself, it’s really not a huge deal to me. If anything, I’m finding the positive in it. Read More

No Shave November: the counterpart 

This is me. This is my beard. #NoShaveNovember 

Alright so I admit, I was last clean shaven in January and I started letting it grow out like this in May. So this isn’t just November, but who’s going to blame me for not wanting to shave this beauty.  

I also apologize for Mr.Young  Alcoholic himself and my early morning beard selfies. Nobody needs to see that….

The Red Sox Remain Fucked

I hate David Price and I can’t fucking believe we’ve signed him. Principle owners of the Boston Red Sox John Henry and Tom Werner, who proudly carry themselves like a couple of gigantic human penises, are a fucking paradox. On one hand, they’ve won 3 World Series Championships in less than a full 15 years of owning this team. All three Championships were won with their fellow man-sized penis Larry Lucchino along for the ride. Lucchino is gone now having retired back in October of this year. I’ll be honest, I kinda miss him! The Penii- Triumvirate that once ruled strong over Dunkin Donuts Athletic Stadium Fenway Park is now kaput. The most human member of this cadre of rich losers has left us at the mercy of two old creeps. I wouldn’t trust John Henry or Tom Werner to be in my kitchen for even just five fucking minutes alone with my dog and a cupboard full of peanut-butter. Much peanut-butter. Why sausage. Such wrong.

Last year, Dunkin Donuts Loyalty Rewards Club Members Red Sox Nation, was told that we didn’t need an “Ace” in a rotation to be a good playoff team. We finished at the bottom of the AL East for the second year in a row. This is where I’d like to point out that we had a shot at signing the following pitchers: John Lester, Max Scherzer, Zack Greinke, and anybody else that we fucking wanted because we are an insanely rich baseball team. But who did we get? Well last year, we got human wet-fart Hanley Ramirez and a morbidly obese Oriental bear disguised as a portly Venezuelan man. Hanley made everybody want to kill themselves and I blame him for every single bad thing that happened last season. Hanley Ramirez was such a wet-fart, that his negativity even dosed the eternal competitive drive to grind of All Star Brock Holt. For those of you international readers, Brock Holt is the Johan Cruyff of baseball. Brock Holt is ELITE. The man is the ultimate gamer and a natural leader of men. His VORP is calculated in English Pounds. He’s the guy that you wanna got to war with. But Hanley hurt his grind and thus brought the whole team down with him. Oh, and Pablo Sandoval died from a diabetes induced heart attack. He was revived with 20cc’s of cup cakes though so he’ll be back next year.

Red Sox ownership has given us three losing seasons at the bottom of or trawling along the bottom of the division in the last four years. Yes there was a World Series Championship in between but Jonny Gomes won that for us so I’m not giving ownership credit for 2013. And David Ortiz gets the credit for acquiring Jonny Gomes because he said “oh man, that’s a guy I wanna go to war with!” And he made it so! But now the solution to being the best worst baseball team of all time? We’ve not got the least clutch Cy Young winner of all time: David Price. Fuck me.

If Hanley Ramirez was a wet-fart, then David Price is a burr that’s suck up your ass. WHAT THE FUCK IS HE DOING HERE??? GET HIM OUT! GET HIM OUT!! I hope everybody’s ready for the pitching equivalent to Carl Crawford. Jesus. We’re so fucked. David Price is either going to be a chode and prove me wrong, win 20 games, take us to the playoffs after Buchholz dies from Ebola, and then Price will end up pitching for us in the Wildcard Game and get fucking creamed by a lean, mean, and stone-cold sober CC Sabathia and the Yankees. I can see it now and it makes me want to die. We’re gonna play the Yankees in the Wildcard Play-in game and we’re gonna lose. Badly. A-Rod’s going to hit four grand salami’s and announce his retirement tour. Pedro Gomez is going to gargle so much mayonnaise. I hope that P-Gomz likes peanut-butter too because I see a very long and very sad, dark future following around Alex Rodriguez until he retires.

David Ortiz says that the beef is over between him and Price. But I sure fuck hope not. That beef better still be mooing, bruh. I can’t watch another season of this. I can’t watch Mookie Betts want to kill himself every time he gets stranded on base. I don’t want to see Junichi Tazawa spill water all over himself on the bench in the bullpen after giving up a five run lead and recording zero outs and not even giving a fuck that he now wet AND sucks at baseball. John Farrell is going to come back from heroically beating cancer only to be set up to fail by the douche bags who run this shop. Xander Bogaerts will leave and go to the Yankees and get benched so Stephen Drew can get some reps in and Bogaerts won’t care because at least he isn’t balls deep in Dunkin Donuts cross promotions and Wally the Green Monster constantly asking what’s his gamertag. The saddest part will be that Pedroia and Ortiz will die without the glorious end that they deserve. It won’t be pretty. It’ll be gruesome and boring. And Brock Holt will be just RAKING and crushing the ball and winning the triple crown all for nothing because no matter how many dingers he smashes, it will never be enough to make up for Price’s 8.26 ERA. We should just go ahead and bring Jake Peavy back. Jake Peavy may have sucked, but at least he was a psycho and not a gigantic pussy like Price is.

Opening day, I hope Price gets booed because we won’t get a shot at ownership. I’m calling it right now, Price won’t make it past the trade deadline. MARK MY WORDS. Pepper your angus, Red Sox Nation. David Price and our shit-ass ownership is coming for our nuts.


Work(ed) at a Call Center? Here’s A State-by-State Breakdown of Customer Service Nightmares!

A Customer Service Agent’s State-by-State Review of Callers From Every Corner of the USA

Two days into quitting smoking I feel pretty awesome. Yesterday I had a 11 and a half hour day at the office and survived without a cigarette. Today, at the end of my shift, I got in my car to leave and it wouldn’t start. I think that it was karma for (accidentally) screwing all of the people that I “helped” over the phone this week. On a side note, I’m beginning to think that  I might be the ideal government employee: I am more that willing to hide behind the rule book, I’m always on time because I don’t have anything better to do than work, I part my hair on the left (like a BAWSE), my friendliness to incompetence ratio is ELITE, my short term memory is shot to hell, I’m good at making shit up and being convincing, I never bother my supervisors or let customers talk to them, I speak 3 languages and I’m workin’ on my Haitian Creole, and most importantly (for whatever fucking reason) old people love my bullshit no matter how stupid or corny it gets. And oh man does it get stupid and corny. I’ve learned that no matter how mad somebody gets if you just say “thank you and God bless ya, sir/ma’am, you have a great day” in a Southern accent to end the conversation then they will immediately change their tune and wish you a heartfelt and sincere “good day”. It might be a little bit of Civil War hangover because for whatever fucking reason the South can’t get over that we took the most epic fucking dump in history on them and did God’s work by freeing the slaves and then raping and pillaging the shit out of the Confederacy (USA! USA! USA!!! IN YOUR FUCKING FACE!!!) but seriously, if you work in a call center then definitely talk as much as possible in a Southern accent because it makes everybody be nicer to you. Particularly Southern people and faux-Southerners (literally everybody who doesn’t live in New York and New England) because they get butthurt about everything and don’t understand basic phone manners or how to engage in verbal communication with another human being. But it’s not just the Southerners and Rust Belt troglodytes who are fucking terrible to talk to, oh no, every state and region in America has its own particularly distasteful brand of awfulness. Allow me to give you a state-by-state breakdown of what it’s like to deal with people on the other end of the customer services lines across our great nation!


First of all, everybody’s phone in the South sucks. It sucks so hard. It’s impossible to fathom the idea that EVERYBODY’S fucking phone down there sucks this hard but it’s a fucking reality. Hard-line, cellphone, tin-can tied to an alligator’s dick, it doesn’t fucking matter. Everybody’s phone sounds like shit and Alabama is one of the worst offenders. Not only does everybody’s phone suck major dick but everybody talks like they have half of a catfish in their mouths. Alabama, you should be ashamed of yourself for proving all snooty-ass Northerners right. If you wonder if you really sound like that, let me assure you that yes you do in fact sound like Foghorn Leghorn after a lifetime of chain smoking. And your phone is too quite. You should really get that fixed.


I’m as shocked as the next asshole from New England to find out that people who call customer service from Alaska seem not only like stable and sensible individuals but also come across as well adjusted and speak English. I thought this would be one of the worst fucking states to get a call from but so far after three weeks in a call center the people who call in from Alaska are shockingly not awful.


Everybody is old and crazy. These are not pleasant calls.


Alaska has been the biggest surprise as far as states not being full of people who are wretched to talk to….unlike people from fucking Arkansas who I 100% expected to be mush-mouthed idiots. I don’t always here subtly racist shit from people, but when I do, they’re calling from Arkansas. And their phones suck too because they live in the South.


I used to be cool with people from Cali, but then I went to film skool. Everybody from California is either a faux-Southerner who farms oranges and hates Mexicans like it’s their job or they’re douchebags from “L.A.” and by “L.A.” they mean some little shithole town that’s 90 fucking minutes from Burbank. Ask someone from “L.A.” where in “L.A.” they’re actually from and watch them sweat bullets. These people will shamelessly say that Sacramento is riiiiiiight down the road from downtown Los Angeles. CHARLATANS. In general, everybody who’s called in from California has been extremely dumb. It’s upsetting to think that these people don’t pay for water and that their state alone is like the 8th largest economy in the world. Jesus fucking Christ. These people need help finding their own assholes.


The California colony known as “Colorado” is just as stupid but slightly meaner. Whenever somebody calls in from Colorado, I automatically start talking in an outdoor voice and as slowly as I can without touching on being condescending. People from Colorado, for having such a dope-ass state, are top 10 most awful to talk to. The level of paranoia and dickery that I’ve gotten from these people is out of control. The worst part about Colorado is that it’s boring and stupid and callers never get CRAZY. Colorado is no fun at all. Callers from Colorado are just busy work and give me a headache.


If every single stereotype about Southern people has been confirmed, the same has been true for all of the dickheads up North. Connecticut is the asshole of New England and New York’s penis. Connecticut as a state can collectively eat a bag of dicks. You people are the reason why God doesn’t talk to us any more. I imagine every idiot from CT calling me from a freshly waterproofed wicker chair just scratching their balls and reading Rolling Stone. NOBODY swings dick like people from CT. NOBODY. Everything that people shit on Northerners about is because of CT. One of my ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War and led some battalion from Connecticut. He deserves a posthumous Medal of Honor because these assholes can’t follow instructions and all deserve to be punched in the dick. Captain Jonathan Esten (my great-ass grandfather) was probably hanged for intentional friendly-fire. I woulda been!


Literally have never received a call from Delaware, which is good because supposedly everybody from Delaware is a pedophile.


And then there’s Florida where everybody is a confirmed pedophile beyond a shadow of a doubt. I dread calls from this state. Florida is America’s penis. Nothing good happens in Florida. This state is the real life Sodom and Gomorrah. There is NOTHING in the Old Testament that is as gnarly as an afternoon in Tallahassee. Fuck north Florida in particular. I can smell you all through your shit-ass southern phones, you coked-up dipshits.


Phones suck. People are polite for the most part. Really don’t mind a good chat with a person from Georgia as long as they spit their peach flavored chaw out first.


I thought that callers from Alaska would be shitty but I was wrong. Very wrong. Hawaii is the sleeper for the title of “worst state to get calls from if you work in a call center”. For real though, holy shit these people suck. Every time somebody sounds like they’re tripping their balls off or coming down from a three day stint on PCP or trying to quit meth, I just assume they’re calling from Hawaii and most of the time I’m right. The other percent of the time that I’m wrong, the caller is from New Mexico and then things go fucking crazy from there. But fucking Hawaii, man. Everybody sounds paranoid to me like they’re trapped in a small, dark room all alone with the ghost of their dead mother molesting them. That seems like a little much but I swear to god everybody sounds fucked up. There’s a very eerie and palpable sense of doom in their voices. Everybody needs a klonopin. I sure as fuck need a klonopin after receiving an unwanted “ma’halo” from some ghost-fucker from Hawaii.


So far, everybody from Idaho sounds like English is their second language.


I think that nobody in Illinois has friends because 80% of my calls come from fucking Illinois. Do you people have fucking computers?? You know that you can do shit over the internet these days, right? I think people from Illinois are lonely and just want to talk to somebody. Most of the time they’re very cheerful and pleasant so I don’t mind chatting with them. I just wish they had some real friends though. Shit’s sad, man.


The home of the KKK and has the most neo-Nazi’s per capita in any part of the world. No state is more ready to rumble than Indiana. I never knew just how powerfully violent the human voice could be until I started getting calls from Indiana. You people are terrifying. Please stop calling me.


Like Illinois, they call A LOT. Pleasant, dull, happy to be helped, and don’t fight you every step of the way. I like people from Iowa’s friendliness. I just wish they had computers.


The only characteristic of calls from Kansas that is worth noting is that nobody is nice. Nobody. This whole state is populated by rude, XXXL Mickey Mouse t-shirt wearing meanies. “No place like home” my ass. I hope you all die in a twister.


Kentucky, based on my sociological findings, is entirely populated by people who fucked their sisters and cousins and spawned several generations of inbred hayseeds. You cornbread feasting maniacs are some of the worst. EVERYBODY who has called me from Kentucky has been drunk as shit. And if they weren’t drunk then they should be embarrassed because their grasp of the English language was severely lacking.




Maine-iacs are some of the worst. Inbred? Check. Paranoid? Oh my fuck. Can’t understand proper English? NOPE! Maine is New England’s Southern state. That’s all you need to know about Maine. They also all wish that they had had slavery too.


Textbook assholes. People from Murrrrrlin’ are soooo unfriendly that saying “thank you” does not register in their brains. Murrrrrlin’ers don’t do pleasantries. The worst part about Murrrrrrlin’ is that these people are Southern but they have Northern phones so I can clearly hear all of the terrible horseshit that they are spitting at me. It’s the worst.


Crystal clear and always polite! JKLOL! My Masshole brothers are not as flawless as I’d like to give them completely unearned credit for. There isn’t the “snootiness” that people from MASS get a lot of heat for, it’s more like they seem too hungover and distracted to hold a conversation. It’s disappointing. I’m embarrassed for them/us.


Hands down the WORST FUCKING STATE IN AMERICA. Michigan is sadder than Darfur and probably has more hate crimes. You cross the border from Ohio and all of the life and color is immediately sucked out of the world and flying monkeys descend on your car and try to shit in your mouth while screaming GO LIONS!!!!!!1!!!! This happens over the phone too. Everybody from Michigan sounds like they’ve had several lobotomies. Everybody sounds like Slingblade but for whatever reason they’re mean too. If you talk to fast they tell you to “slow down” and ask if you’re a “colored”. I wish I was making this up. I’ve been called “yankee” by fucking Michiganders before. Smdh. If you’re from Michigan and you call people “yankees” you should just do us all a favorite and kill yourself. Go to Indiana and start a fight if you want to start fights with strangers. They’re dying for a fight so go fight down there. Go fight them. Please stop calling me. And stop asking if I’m Latin.


Not horrible people. Talk goofy, are nice and pleasant, don’t try to swing dick, and all around perfectly normal people. Everybody talks like Fargo! It’s kinda awesome! And everybody goes ape shit when you pronounce “Faribault” correctly. “OOOOOH GEE! YOU SED IT REIT!” I kind of love these people. They’re like the intelligible versions of the Swedish Chef from The Muppets.


GOD. FUCKING. AWFUL. Nobody has teeth, command of English, or a good phone. Seriously, Mississippi must be one big fucking swamp full of shit because the reception down their is terrible. No really, what the fuck is wrong with your phones down there?


Colorado Lite. SUCKS. People are dumb and ask you to talk slower.


Nothingland. I don’t think that you can make outgoing calls from Nebraska unless you use a pay phone. I get very few calls from this godforsaken wasteland.


Nothing but scumbags and drunk people. Only worked at a call center for three weeks and every bit of what could be considered sexual harassment has been from somebody calling from Nevada. State most likely to have someone say to you, “…you sound like you smell pretty. What’s your last name, girly?” Fuck these people.


Timid, laconic, less drunk and less talkative than callers from MASS, generally pleasant. New England’s Minnesota.


Here’s a secret from a dude who was born on Long Island (me): New Jersey is the best kept secret in America. It’s the richest state in the union. It’s THE BOMB. The Garden State is where it’s at. Everybody’s cool and friendly. Nobody sucks, nobody’s paranoid or getting felt up by ghosts and coming down from speedballin’. This is a good state with good people and if you hate it, then that means that 1). you’ve never been and you’re talking out of your ass, and/or 2). you’re a fucking idiot. New Jersey is the titties and I salivate at the very thought of getting NJ calls all day.


CRAZY RACIST. I would put the entirety of my next pay check on being called a faggot by somebody from New Mexico at least once before my work as a temp is up. I’m for real, some callers have been a liiiiiittle too close to slipping up with the fag-word. It’s kinda hilarious but it’s also terrible. Most of the callers hate “drunk-ass Indians” and “wetbacks”. You’re not officially allowed to say that you’re from New Mexico until you’ve violently raped somebody in a truck stop shower.


New Yorkers get a bad rep for being loud and rude and “too talkative”. I don’t know what the deal with that is. New Yorkers are friendly and cool. Upstate’s a whole different story though. Upstate is garbageland and everybody might as well be from Pennsylvania because they suck. NYC has its own fair share of shitty callers too. Mostly it’s paranoid old women who live in Brooklyn and the Upper East Side and call in to cancel catalog subscriptions. Wanna hear something funny? When somebody calls in from New York and requests to be deleted from the mailing list I file their address under the request list to be sent a buttload of new magazines! This sounds horrible but nobody is more of a garbage human being than some paranoid old rich lady from the Upper East Side who has NOTHING better to do than call my ass up and chat about how Chinese people stuff her mailbox full of magazines. I’ll give that bitch sumthin’ to REALLY cry about. Subscription to Maxim AND Mad Magazine? You got it, bitch! I bet next time you won’t forget your “pleases” and “thank you’s”. Never be rude to somebody who has your credit card information and your home address. That’s just askin’ for it.


Bad phones but everybody is wicked nice!


Drunk and inexplicably boastful.


I went to high school in Ohio and it was the worst four years of my life. Ohio sucks ass. And callers from Ohio are the worst. They have a little bit of every type of suckishness about them: angry, stupid, slow, bad at speaking English, bad phones, racist, everybody is old and can’t hear, and in general these people are just rude and are always paranoid. If they could hurt you, they would.


I’ve only gotten one call from Oklahoma and it was so boring I don’t even remember it.


I don’t understand why but it’s like everybody on the West Coast is a paranoid psycho. What is with people on the West Coast and their Unibomer mentality? Do people just move out West to escape from society? If you really want to be off the grid then why the fuck do you have a phone? Fuck off, Oregon. Oregon is the Ohio of the West Coast. That means that California is Michigan and Washington is Indiana. Congrats Oregon! You’re boring AND crazy but not insane enough to be the worst of the worst. You exist in the middle of the pack with other suckbag states. Go home and smoke more meth!


Oh god. Fucking Pennsylvania. The only thing that I like about callers from Pennsylvania is that they tend to yell into the phone because that’s just how people talk in that state. The Yinzers are awesome and so are the people from Philly. They’re usually drunk and loud but more than happy to repeat themselves because they know that they’re too drunk to make any sense. I like that kind of humility.


Everybody’s name is “Carmine” and is vaguely threatening.


South Carolina is one of the worst states in America. You people disgust me. 100% of callers from South Carolina just want to fight with customer service agents. I can see why North Carolinians split from you turds. Those people have manners! You people in South Carolina have bad phones, can’t speak English, and are ALWAYS surly. You are harder to please than Somalian women.


Weird. Just weird. It’s like getting calls from somebody who is calling from a parallel universe that exists 100 years in the past. If the Rust Belt is 35-40 years behind the times, then South Dakota is easily a full century behind. A caller from South Dakota after a forty-five minute chat on the customer service line: “…OK thank you, son…now who are you and how did you get inside my telephone?” It’s like everybody there has dementia but are thankfully slow to rage. Thank god. Second most common question coming out of South Dakota: “How are you on the computer and talking to me on the telephone at the same time?” Jesus Christ.


I literally cannot understand ANYBODY from Tennessee. Even if people from Tennessee didn’t have shitty Southern phones, I’d still have a very frustrating and difficult time understanding them. Why do people from Tennessee bark? It sounds like a state full of teenwolfs. Are you all dope at basketball too? I can’t tell if callers have stutters or are just barking at me. Stop barking! You’re human! (I hope).


Generally friendly unless they’re weird and old. I like callers from Texas because they are grandiose and laugh at the dumbest shit. These calls are usually very pleasant. Unless it’s some old person from the panhandle. Then you’ve got problems.


I thought that callers from Utah would be creepy and Mormon but mostly they’re just drunk people who call just to chat. If I see Utah pop up on my five9 call agent screen, I know that I’m in for a solid half hour of drunken nonsense. It’s always awesome and kind of insane. Callers from Utah aren’t just drunk, they are poop-cheeks wasted. Like, black out drunk. And they call to just talk. If they’re looking to buy stuff, they buy a ridiculous amount of shit. It doesn’t matter though because they usually are too drunk to read (or even find) their credit cards.


Weird. Vaguely paranoid. Sometimes friendly. Reject modern society. Lives up to low expectations.


Sometimes, Virginia seems like Maryland’s good twin. Virginia has some of Murrrrlin’s dickishness but not all of it. Virginian’s dickishness is canceled out because they do have some of North Carolina’s pleasantness. Not all terrible people! Better than Murrrrrlin’. WAY better than Murrrrrlin’.


If Michigan is the worst state to get calls to customer service from, then Washington is the second worse. Holy. Fucking. Shit. Everything that I hate about customer service and all of the negative stuff about working at a call center is embodied in callers from the state of Washington. Rude. Can’t speak English. Have shit-ass phones. Talk SLOW. Easily confused. Come across as either wicked dumb or too high to function. I don’t know what it is, but these people have a temper. Callers from Washington have hung up on me for “talking too fast” and “being slick”. What? You called ME, bro. They just like to fight. I don’t know what it is. Washington is way more unfriendly than Michigan. Some days, the callers from Washington are worse than the callers from Michigan. At least the callers from Michigan are too sad and defeated to put up much of a stink. But not Washington! These folks are always ready take out their butthurt on you. For a state with legal weed, the amount of butthurt people seems a little HIGH to me. It’s almost like drugs make you stupid or something.


This state. God. Everything to West Virginia callers is an inconvenience. Very much like callers from Tennessee but sadder and weirder. Clearly inbred.


VERY friendly and sort of weird. Almost TOO friendly. Almost condescending. I used to think that everybody’s grandma lived in New Hampshire but I was wrong. Everybody’s grandma lives in Wisconsin. Based on my observations, 86% of Wisconsin’s population is women who are at least 65 or older. They are nice though.


Nobody actually lives there. All of the calls I get are prank calls from Martians and bored US Air-force crewmen. I’ve only gotten two calls from Wyoming. First one from “Ben Dover” and the second one was from “Mike Hunt”. I laughed at both of these. Good to see that our illegal alien population has a good sense of humor! Call me up anytime, spacemen!


This is a public service announcement, this is only a test, emergency evacuation protest-Green Day

When I can’t think of a title for article, I just write the song lyric I just heard.That came from Warning by green day.

It was that line that gave me an idea. For the last however long I’ve been trying to convince my counterparts to move across country from New Hampshire and Toledo to live with me in Seattle. This is easy for me to say, because I’ve moved so many times in the last three years. To give example of this, I’ve lived on the East Coast the West Coast and the Midwest this year alone. 

I’ve made a habit of staying in one place for about three months, moving somewhere else, going back to that first place moving somewhere else after three months again, and so on and so forth. 

This lifestyle was great for the first two years. I had spent the first 20 years of my life living in Michigan, the house I grew up in was my fathers childhood home, and subsequently my grandparents house before I moved in when I was seven. so essentially I live in the same place my entire life.

This lifestyle can also get very old, very quickly. It’s lonely living on the road. It’s a simple as that. When you’re only somewhere for three months you can’t cultivate friendships, you can’t get into a routine, you can’t really do anything because it’s only short-term. 

At this point I’ve been here for four months. I work two jobs in my field starting my career I have business plans I’m working out

I know I’m going to be in Seattle for a couple years. My parents just moved to the Pacific Northwest my sister lives down the hall from me I have a good job that’s in my field. I have no reason to go anywhere, and the feeling is amazing.

It’s strange though, since moving here my life is changed drastically. And I’m not as upset or angry at everything anymore. If you were to ask Ted how to describe me he would say the angriest person alive, I can’t really blame him. 

I have a perfect example of this. A week or so ago I run article about how much I hate Christmas. I still don’t love Christmas but in that time I’ve met some people, now have some friends, I’m going out little bit and actually having a life and now I’m hosting a Christmas party. 

And no, I’m not doing this because of a girl. The girl who is organizing this party I’m hosting is married.

So, all my friends, I have to say, move. If you’re not happy with your life, then leave. Keep moving until it all feels right.

My First Erotic Teenage Affair (And I Didn’t Even Get Pregnant!)

Above photo taken circa 2011.

P.S. Nothing’s wrong with showin’ a little bit of leg. God, I was so not hot. 

Today, in the midst of doing absolutely nothing (and watching Netflix comedy specials), I randomly remembered an event that happened on my 22nd birthday. I woke up to a message. A Facebook message. OoohLala. Who even writes those anymore? I felt special as fuck because normally you just get the barrage of half-assed “Happy Birthday!” with a heart emoji or a cake or whatever. No, I got a message. And, from a boy!

It was from a kid I was sleeping with when I was 16 in high school. He was a German exchange student. I’ll call him “Hot German”. Fitting enough. That’s pretty much how I could describe him. He was like the kind of hot that it was like, not arguable. That dude is sexy, bar-none. No arguments. And, when he arrived, it created like a perfect storm between the girls in the Upper School.

Allow me to weave a tale. Me, Ted, and Miles’ school was very private, secluded, and elitist. Ted’s mom was the principal, too. Which definitely explains why he’s in recovery, poor thing. In the entire “Upper School”, which consisted of grades 9-12, there were maybe 175 students. That’s a quite liberal estimate as well. Ted and I’s graduating class was 43. There are schools in this country with, like, thousands of kids in one grade! That was not the case at our little coven.

So, eleventh grade. I had just turned 16. 16 was, like, a big deal. I saw all those movies. I didn’t get a car but I lost my virginity awkwardly late that summer so, boo ya! I guess…? Either way, toward the end of the previous year, our school posted pictures of students from abroad who’d be coming to visit the following year. Enter: Hot German. Ever see a bunch of teenage girls swoon like a John Mayer song was playing? That was it. Yes, I had a boyfriend, but at that point, Hot German was just a picture. A shitty, photocopied, low-res stock photo. So, I wasn’t that bent out of shape. Until he arrived. My own foreign exchange student, Laura, was staying with me at that point and they came with the same program. I had an “in”. I felt like James motherfuckin’ Bond. Again, I was just gonna look, not touch, feel me? But, that fine motherfucker showed up at my door, the sun hitting him just right so it was like a halo of sexiness illuminating this nigga (who wasn’t even a nigga but still…) and I melted. And it was at that moment. That moment where my inner voice was like, “So, you gonna fuck him.” There was no question about it; it was gonna happen.

And it did. Like, within two months. All over the place. And, I regretted it a bit at that time because A) I cheated on my boyfriend and that’s not cool and B) We had to keep it a secret. Now, the secret aspect of it was sort of the best part for a while. The sneaking around, texting dirty (ok, not even that dirty but 16-year-old-English-as-your-second-language dirty), Skype talks, shit like that. It was for all intents and purposes, an affair. A torrid affair. And, it was pretty fun at the time. I won’t bullshit. Plus, the dick was bomb. It really was.

Fast forward, it’s been six years. And, I get a message. Screen Shot 2015-11-30 at 11.49.53 PM

So, I was blindsided a bit! Whoa. Blast from the past. And, at 4:34 in the morning (which is actually 9 or 10 AM his time I realized)! Of course, he’s back in Germany, I haven’t really thought about him in years, because you know, I’m not a psycho white girl who still stalks the guy she kissed ONE TIME in 6th grade because you know, you never know… No. I’m off it.

But, I responded. We had a little dialogue. I left it at that. It was nice to reminence on my less-than-moral days. And, if given the chance, I’d still smash. Because he’s still pretty hot, not gonna lie. And, I’d like to see if the sex was actually good or I was just 16 and he happened to last for more than 90 seconds and had a decent-sized dick.

Maybe one day, when I’m jet-setting around on the European leg of my best-selling book tour, I’ll stop in Germany and we’ll casually meet up and I’ll be super cool, like wearing a bomb ass outfit with my boobies on point, and I’ll say, “Oh, Hot German, remember all of the shenanigans we got into? Ha! Ha! Oh, how immature we were” (read that with a slightly British accent, if you will. Thanks.) And, he’ll say, “Ja. Zat was zee best sex of my life, I will never experience zee pleasure of a woman like you again”. And, I’ll say, “No, you won’t. Shame.” And, then I fuckin’ bounce! BOOM!

HAHA. Just kidding. In the extremely unlikely event that would ever happen, he’ll have to bring his ass back to America. I’m not trying to go no where near Europe right now. ISIS is acting a damn fool.


Cabin Fever, Writer’s Block, and A Brief Break from Reality.

Photo Above via

It’s so annoying to not be able to finish something. Like a man in his 50s, suddenly losing his vitality, I find myself in a lonely, stagnant state. One moment, you are flying; the words pouring out of you. Everything makes sense, characters come together and a beautiful story emerges from the maddening swirl that is your brain. My brain, to be specific. I know I am capable of doing something. Creating something great. Like Kanye West’s Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, the voices in my head are stamped out with each growing pain, each blink, each muscle twitch.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to do. I can’t make myself feel. It’s the ultimate paradox. Or perhaps, conundrum. What are these words? What do they mean? I doubt my existence. I watch characters on a small screen; their lives are so complex and intriguing. I can only imagine myself in their shoes. I love the escapism, yet I feel a deep, aching sadness that I can’t create. Or perhaps, I just won’t. I can’t make my brain work correctly.

I want to close my eyes and sleep forever. I am just so tired. Life is utterly exhausting. I find the life draining out of me with every passing day. The meeting of my eyelids is the only thing that washes calm over my stiffening body. Dark swirls of heavy rest are around; I can see it in the air. And I’m lonely. Sometimes, I hold my own hand, and for a moment I pretend it’s someone else. Someone sleeps next to me. He’s beautiful, with azure eyes and thick, black hair. He pulls me in close, whispering that I’m safe. He loves me. I love him. I only see him when I sleep, though. He has no name, he doesn’t need one. He’s just a part of me; my other half, absorbed into my own being. I know he’s not real, but it doesn’t matter. He comforts me, he makes me feel less alone. He’s no god, he doesn’t demand I worship him. He’s a peaceful fantasy. A blissful figment of my imagination.

I know I must sound crazy, dear reader. I assure you, I very much am. A calm, gentle, calculated insane. Not to instill fear, but I must explain. I mean no harm, but I know my synapses are wired wrong. Or, maybe everyone else is wired wrong, and I’m the only sane one. I mean imagine that! What if everyone in the immediate world came to the consensus that the sky is orange? You can see it is clearly, plainly blue. You point this out. You are ostracized for daring to challenge the authoritarian. That is what I feel. I poked the bear.