Statement of Purpose

Might actually go thru with “grad applications” this time around and now pretending to think about writing my “statement of purpose.” While justifying my existence to a multitude of strangers who might not even understand the concept of “post-structural blonde” is deeply undignified, the prospect of the rest of my life spent “serving people” is even moreso.

Currently mulling over a couple intros, or “hooks” [industry term, dawnworryboutit] that will convince the admissions committee that I’m the literary offspring of Joan Didion and Matt Taibbi, and at the very least will make an illustrious dead alumna when I kick it at 32 after I blow my book deal $$ on too much [vice of choice in 2017, probably still sriracha and PCP]. Here’s what I have so far.

Born 25 years too late to pursue my would-be destiny as an Eagles groupie, lounging around Laurel Canyon until marrying a producer or overdosing on Quaaludes, I might as well get an MFA in creative nonfiction. My erstwhile youthful idealism is petrifying into a slow, deadening misery and I have no interest in making it past 30 if Windex continues to be a daily component of what I get paid for. Please reference my twitter feed for further proof of my singular grasp on the nuanced truths of the human condition. 

I suffered a massive aneurysm when I read that  “Lena Dunham is the voice of her generation” and decided that hell is actually not having bourgeoisie Manhattanite  parents with contacts at the New York Times. My childhood fantasy of being an artist living on popcorn and wine in a cold apartment was fun for about a week until I realized that I like macchiatos and professional haircuts. As a white American chick who was born in 1985 + thinks that every other word out of her mouth is worthy of being recorded solely because I was awarded soccer trophies when I was 6 even though I kind of sucked, OBVS I’m going to get an MFA.  And better at soccer.  

Thank you for considering my application, and although you’ll be tempted to award me full professorship immediately, I assure you I look forward to the tutelage of your distinguished staff, and the opportunity to crash undergrad house shows in jorts and a crop-top without compromising my position at your institution. Please reply with a list of your local microbrews. 

I look forward to being referred to as a “woman of letters,”  plus wearing shoulder pads for my about-the-author shoot.


get high, fuck a bunch of girls: everything just got fun again.

Ok so who doesn’t feel like they just ate a packet of Nerds AND Sour Patch kids and just wants some more before they crash and have to take a nap and a shower. I think we officially just emerged from the dark acknowledgment of the world ending as we speak and now we just want to paint our nails and dance about pretending to care that someone we’re dating just cheated 0n us with a hairdresser.

We live in a magical age which can be demonstrated by a single entity: haircuts. This current vogue of the chicest females being these hyper-sexual but androgynous cyborgs with razor-sharp coifs: MOAR PLZ. MEANWHILE, I feel SO bad for dudes. How’s a guy supposed to navigate this GI Jane Barbie as Preying Mantis who is just Living Breathing Sex but looks like she also might kill him?  (*Everything just made sense. This is the reason internet dating exists, friends. [via everyone being too afraid/bored to actually approach another human being in person] [side note to all the Y chromo havers in the audience: UGHGGH how many times do I have to say: just be a good bro who’s generous sometimes and likes to walk around on a nice day and that’s all you have to do and that will be more than enough, unless the lady of yr affection sucks, in which case you should drop her yesterday DUH, grow some self-respect if that’s the conundrum you’re in][just looking out, love you])

Other thoughts: let’s wear denim bustiers all the time, DEH.

This is the first time the “culture wars” have revealed themselves to be a little bit fun: I’m glad that for every bloodied-fetus-sign-waving zealot that raises one’s blood pressure while crushing ones will to live, there’s a gorgeous, leotarded + mohawked faux-lesbian getting fake-gone-down-on by a chick singing “get high, fuck a bunch of girls”, all while wearing cross earrings . Our “fuck you” is fun, we won. The end ❤ ❤