the worst.

Dear marc,
I’m sitting at a bus stop listening to a cover of ‘forever young’ and getting SENTIMENTAL. I had to leave the bar because I’m tired/old/drunk/hungry/OLD, which is the saddest thing I’ve ever admitted in public.

help a bitch, srsly. 

And of course the bus is 20 minutes late. I WANT TO EAT THE CHOCOLATE MY MOM SENT ME. Happy easter, you cunt.



dear marc,

halloween was a whirlwind. i haven’t found any pictures to back up my claims yet, so here are some haikus to give you a taste of what happened.
the wig was too much
it started to frighten folks
so became hair belt
mary-kate’s flannel
proved too short to cover bits
i made lots of friends
only this group would
end up in a dance-sex pile
all bruised and blue-balled tomorrow
the next day…
serial killers
we found a mutual love
and will mimic them
katie loves football
matt and jordan watch lifetime
of course, conflict came


as soon as i find some pictures, i’ll elaborate.

other job

dear marc,

i recently accepted a position in retail. i’m not going to tell you what store it is (i’m just calling ‘the place,’ and ‘other job’), but just know that i gave up wearing the store’s clothes when i stopped eating 3,000 calories a day and could fit into sassier pieces (and nothing in this store could be considered a ‘piece’). anyway, the job sucks. it’s merchandising, but it’s completely mindless and tedious and blaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. and the PEOPLE even suck, marc. you know i’ll take any job where the people might be halfway wacky just so i can tell people stories about how RIDICULOUS everyone is. these people are just giant glasses of skim milk, stumbling around, spilling their white supremacy all over the place (no, not in the fun way). except for one girl, who doesn’t speak but it always making weird grunty noises when someone says something stupid. and there’s a token black chick who is so afrocentric but in the most superficial of ways. she talks like a white chick but says things (and i’m paraphrasing) like, “i’m black. i like black things. february is black history month. i like february. i’m black.”
(yes, she’s mariah carey.)
anyway, i’m hoping this is only a temporary matter, only until i can get enough money to book it the hell out of here. or you could deus ex machina my ass and JUST COME GET ME YOU BASTARD TEASE. don’t feel too bad though, i’m working at the earth house still, which is my only source of mental stimulation. now THOSE are some interesting people.
(look how fun i look, even when getting blind-sided by a secret photog.)
come get me marc. mama’s waiting.

meesh meesh

dear marc,

if you’re looking for mischa barton, i found her tonight in east ghetto land. she was with two girls. they asked us for directions and CLEARLY we had no idea where they wanted to go because our broke-down asses were also lost. then david says, ‘hi mischa!’ so i look up and see her giggling and being kind of a wrecked mess. she was wearing that same outfit she’s been wearing for about a month. you know the one, the big black hat and white man shirt with a tie. marc, tell mischa no one’s buying what she’s selling in that.
still no job.
still no lovers.
still no photoshoot.

Plea #5

dear marc…

i quit my job. I DON’T KNOW. i just couldn’t go back to that small office where i got made fun of for carrying my giant green man-purse. i couldn’t listen to mark mumble all day about things like hunting and hating obama? AND HE SMELLED, MARC. god jesus fuck did he smell AND he chewed with his mouth open. i felt like i was listening to a horse poop when he ate his egg sandwiches. also, i really just didn’t want to get out of bed today.
i guess i REALLY need you now. stop by when you’re doing rounds at fashion week.


dear marc,

today you should hire me because a guy just got STABBED right outside my window. the cops are here now and i’m trying to piece together the story by listening on the balcony with all the other nosy arab women but i JUST can’t understand what they’re saying. maybe a pashmina would help?