A Case Of Veuve


We thought the case would last us the weekend, but it’s not gonna make it past brunch. It’s all good though. Last night’s debauchery was a much needed break from reality, and today is all about keeping the lights dimmed, listening to good music, and enjoying our hangovers.

My plan is to stay fucked up for the next thirty-six hours until I have to get on yet another plane. Meanwhile, a dude gave me a hotel bathrobe as a Christmas present. I can’t tell if it was last-minute and lazy, or if he just really gets me. Whatever. I’m not taking it off until 2014.


Your Spirit Animal



Listen, motherfucker. I don’t know what you thought would happen when you picked me as your spirit animal, but you can take all that adorable woodland creature nonsense and shove it up your unenlightened ass. I’ve been around. I’ve seen shit. I fucked Bambi’s mother back when she was still hot.

That’s right, bitch. This ain’t gonna be some gentle cleansing of the soul. We’re not gonna skip through any dreamscape meadows together. We’re not gonna dip our cute little noses in any babbling brooks of mystic energy. I’m gonna drag your useless shrieking ego through the black forest shadow dimension until your higher consciousness can move through the eternal nothingness without fear of its own annihilation.

You think you’re ready for a vision quest? You’d better be, asshole. I’m gonna eye fuck so much ancient sacred wisdom into your thick human skull that time and space will melt away into harmonic vibrations of universal oneness.

Go ahead. Whisper your darkest fears and deepest secrets into my furry little ears. I’m the righteous guardian of your fate, and I’ve already seen your death.


Dear Jessica Bari


Dear Jessica Bari,

I understand the appeal of working from your bed, but it’s kinda difficult to get any good writing done with your vagina all over the keyboard like that.

Perhaps that’s why you found it necessary to plagiarize whole swaths of my fun-sized advice from Dear Coquette. Honestly, did you really think that someone wouldn’t eventually notice?

Every single one of your TMI Tuesdays posts are riddled with both questions and answers lifted directly from my site. Naturally, you changed a few of the bigger words so as not to seem too smart. (That was on purpose, right?) And of course, you mixed in a few original thoughts to keep things less interesting. Clever as you tried to be, the theft is still plainly evident.

Oh, Jessica. What to do with you now?

Obviously, you’re a fan — and hey, I appreciate it — but if you’d been paying any attention at all, you’d know I don’t take kindly to people stealing my work. Last time it happened, a girl named Brianna tried to pass off my advice as her own, and I brought the hammer down so hard and fast that she fell off the face of the fucking internet.

You on the other hand, well, I just don’t know. It seems you have a thriving life coaching business to maintain where you teach fellow sociopaths how to “Rationalize Anything.” That or you’re using your masters degree in family counseling to do what appears to be softcore webcam modeling. Either way, I don’t expect you’re the type who’ll take down your website just because you got caught being completely full of shit.

So, here’s what I propose: Take the rest of the week to comb through each of your TMI Tuesdays posts and remove every last one of the questions and answers that you lifted directly from my site.

Once that’s done, I’d like you to sit at your keyboard (be sure and wipe it down first) and compose a written apology for trying to pass off my work as yours. Please use your own words, and then submit it to me over at Dear Coquette. (Clearly, you’ve been there before.)

Finally, don’t ever pull this kind of shit again. You may think that anything goes these days, but this is the fucking internet. You can’t get away with plagiarism.

Good luck with the whole life coaching thing.

Yours in rationalization,

The Coquette


You do not exist.

At any given moment, you do not exist. Your body exists, temporary though it may be. Still, you are not your body. You are merely an electrochemical process of your body. The continuity of your separate self is manufactured every few milliseconds by a hunk of warm grey meat between your ears. In the time it takes you to read this sentence, your brain has created you a thousand times, and it has left behind a thousand ghosts of you.




“We are tiny specks of talking meat on a wet ball in the middle of nowhere… – coke talk… enjoy yourself…”

Someone sent me more graffiti. This is turning into a thing. Cool.


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