“Die is a strong word. Maybe they should say ‘you should not be on my radar’ or something.”

- my friend, about a blog email comment I received today saying I'm “a fat slut who should die.”

I laughed, because as far as criticisms go, that’s pretty unrealistic. Like, sometimes I might LOOK fat, but that’s just cause my face is sorta roundish and I haven't "found my light" as Tyra would say. In the realest life, I’m pretty skindawgs. Re: the slut thing… Well, last time I checked there aren’t any videos of me from sophomore year of college on YouTube, so I don’t know how they can tell that perhaps I was on the sluttish side in an extremely unliberated sense nearly a decade ago. I’m actually a kinda choosy lady, and right now I’m Positive K-ing, in a sense, so they can suck a dick on that one or whatever. And ya know, finally, maybe I should die, I’ll cop to that. I always imagined myself going out like Tupac. Like, once I get the equivalent of my fifth platinum record or whatever, I would get shot on the Vegas strip in this crazy graceful and tragic scenario. That being said, I’m not ready to go out because I need my death to be a big deal outside of Instagram and my family and like, my bros from college and LA and stuff. If someone shot me in Vegas at this point, they’d sweep me up with a broom like they do with all the other dead hookers, and since we’ve already delved into what a non-skankmaster I am, that would be extra tragic but not at all glamorous. That just won’t do. So give me time, Angry Blog Commenter. I might get fat once I don’t have to care anymore (sorry!), maybe I’ll get super slutty if the man of my life leaves me/dies and/or for some reason I’m hanging out in a Jude Law Factory (where they make babes like Jude Law), but the death thing… I say like, FIVE YEARS TOPS. Hang in there.