Sick of All Your Lines, So Cheesy. Sorry, Daddy, But I'm Not That Easy

It's been unseasonably warm where I live, and the grass is turning that pretty emerald green you only see in springtime. The kind of weather that makes me feel optimistic and hopeful. But of course, there is one thing I need to critique: all the thoroughly creepy and threatening messages Esperanza Spalding recieved after winning Best New Artist over Justin Beiber. Seriously, guys, accept that Beiber's star is (finally) imploding. He had a great ride as the little gay guy that girls with no life drool over, but his evil hypnotic powers don't seem to be working anymore. But I have to say, his songs are very fun to dance to if you mute out his voice. So put down your laptop, take a shower, and accept that gay men sometimes aren't loveable. Or even likeable. In fact, this particular gay boy makes my ears bleed. Happy trails!

From Ugly Duckling... To Uglier Duck

Let's talk trash: specifically, ex-boyfriends. Ladies and gays, please hold off your comments on the subject until the end. I find that these are the two most irritating types: the ones who are total shy geeks when you date them, then start sleeping around and acting like they taught you your skills after you dump their asses, and the rednecks who dump you for White Trash on Parade, then act like they never confessed to you that they sleep with a blowup doll. The first kind is the most rage-inducing; when I teach a guy the subtle art of hourly breath mint consumption and convince them to throw out their life-size Megan Fox cutouts, I'd really appreciate them not giving me advice. So, once again, advice time! Leave the dirtiest, skeeviest magazines you can legally purchase in his locker, along with notes from his "girlfriend" saying she hates when he uses deoderant, loves that old sweater with Rudolph on it, and adores it when he sings Justin Beiber randomly in the halls. If he's stupid enough to take the advice, you get a dinner show. If not, well, you creeped him out enough to satisfy your fantasies. As for the second type, well, it's best to let your friends do the dirty work. That way, when he finds his car drenched in maple syrup, graffiti on his house, and boxers strewn all over his front lawn, you can pull a Shaggy; you know, "It wasn't me."