Crazy Ex-Girlfriends, We're Unforgettable

My ex is on the brain. As is normally the case these days. And so, I have tried to find other ways to occupy my time. Such as, listening to his favorite song, wearing the ring he gave me, and gazing through his window for six hours. Just in case you think I'm serious and are about to call the cops, I am being facetious. For the standard English students, this means joking, sarcastic...etc. Suffice it to say I'm not exactly the type to let go easily. There's only one thing to do in situations like this. And here it is: go through his trash. Trust me, no one is too good for you after you unearth their neglected waste. Once you find the racist Mexican jokes he wrote to his friend in Algebra, or the drawings of Megan Fox in various R-rated poses, gazing into his window from the bushes will become a distant illegal memory. You're welcome, you sad little dumpees.

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."

Ladies and kenzy-6 gay men, generations of magazines, wise old grannies, and random homeless crackheads have commented on this issue, and I'll add my two cents: men are extremely, horribly mentally handicapped, especially in the romance department (even more so after playing Xbox or watching Skinemax). I actually had a guy ask me why his ex got so angry that he hooked up with her best friend within 4 days of dumping her. He left the conversation with his tail between his legs and a stiletto in his throat. Here's the sitch, clueless, chromosomally-challenged little dogs: for the most part, we hate you. We hate your Gameboys, Budweiser, and your friends who spill beer on random girls' white T-shirts and make it look like an accident. However, you do have some redeeming qualities, all three of them. And they are: credit card, make-out skills, and car. Yes, I'm a bitter little bitch, but I'm a bitch who knows how to land the man of your money fantasies. All it takes is one skill: flattery. Compliment him like hell and dress in a short skirt while doing it. So simple.

Bend... And Snap! Goes Your Neck

I have a theory for why so many teens are attempting suicide, and/or succeeding. Here it is: Justin Beiber! Studies show that his music routinely hits a frequency that sends depressing waves into teens' heads. Okay, maybe I just fabricated so more people would see him as the transvestite sociopath he is. Frankly, I don't trust a boy who dances that good and wears skinny jeans. I can't help thinking of George Michael and sex offenders and I find it disgusting. And no, I am not homophobic or trannie-phobic. In fact, they scare me way less than normal people. Serial killers and rapists are often desribed as being, "the most normal, good kids," in high school. Whereas we perverted weird kids grow up to be singers and actresses. Or Arby's general managers. Either way, my resolution is to resist the urge to stab myself in the eye with a rib bone when a J.B. song comes on the radio. As for all the little kids who have the dreaded fatal disease Beiber Fever, just gently let her (or him) know that J.B. needs to take a nice little vacation to the underside of his Range Rover. Then nicely smash his CDs and use his posters as toilet paper. She'll thank you for it.

1,2,3, Turnaround... So I Can Punch Your Face

Know that story that ends with the guy in tights rescuing the girl with glass shoes, which, by the way, probably hurt like hell? Now, I know these stories don't exactly show real love, like Cinderella paying the bills while Charming goes off with strippers, but these girls never seem to have anything to do but sit around and wait. For a guy in tights. Who probably took a wrong turn trying to rescue his prince. Also, they never have girlfriends. Ever. And that's baffling. Who else are you gonna call when Prince Queer Eye leaves the toilet seat up and forgets to clean the gutters? And we all need someone to play the Why Is He Not Calling game. The one where you take tons of random guesses and that one honest girl who nobody likes says, "Maybe he just thinks you're super-possessive and not that hot." Of course, sometimes girlfriends are overrated. Like when they de-friend you on Facebook and say they're cutting you out of their life for no good reason... but I digress. But hey, once again, I have a solution, and a simple one: just hire someone's bipolar, ADHD five-year-old to drop off at her house for a day. And make sure he bites :). Meow

Some Hearts Just Get Stomped All Over and Murdered Sometimes

Well, it's official. Not Facebook official... yet. But I will no longer be writing as a taken girl. I will be... the dumped girl. The girl who got dumped an hour ago. I'm sure you can understand that I'm not exactly in my normally pleasant mood. So, I will share a poem that I wrote for your pleasure about liars who need to have their balls ripped off and chewed by sharks. Such a lovely image :).

Here they come, the same sweet words
Rich, warm, soft like honey
But underneath, I can taste
The dark bitterness of truth
Always there, boiling in my blood
Sometimes visible, sometimes not
Your voice of silk says lovely words
Snake venom sweetened with sugar
But i see your cold eyes, shards of black ice
And though the honey tastes so sweet
The bitter herbs sting my tongue
You look surprised, darling
Do you take me for a fool?
More sweet lies pour into my ears
Begging forgiveness, promising to change
You put on quite a show, such entertainment
As I ride off into the sun