Dear Miss Bitch

Since this is an advice column, I thought I’d better start bestowing my wisdom onto those in need, and who better to start with than the readers of Cosmo? I was disappointed that the issue I had for “research” purposes had only one good question in it, but then I found that Cosmo has message boards that people actually write use to get advice from other reader-morons. Squeeee! If you have a burning question for me, email me at dearmissbtch[at]gmail. If you have burning genitals, on the other hand, find someone else to bother.

Cosmopolitan, May 2009

When my guy and I hang out, he always asks me what I want to do, but he never comes up with ideas of his own. When I tell him he should choose, he says he doesn’t know. He takes our relationship very seriously, but I’d love it if he took the wheel every once in a while. How can I encourage him to do that?

So you want your boyfriend to take the wheel every once in a while? Well, according to Carrie Underwood, when you want Jesus to take the wheel, you have to almost die. So, I’d advise the same to you with your boyfriend – get yourself in a proper near-death situation in which he has no other choice but to take action. And hope that the action he takes is saving you.

If that’s just too much work for you, might I then suggest finding a boyfriend who actually has a personality and isn’t such a pussy pouch?

judgemental guy or comfortable and honest?

so i’ve totally had a crush on a guy from work, and i know, i know … you’re never supposed to date within work, but he recently quit since law school is about to start. anyhow, we’ve hung out a few times, nothing like dating but a girl can hope, right? so i had noticed that he always made comments about girls’ physical apprearance, but i’m the only female he tells it to. like, “her torso totally doesn’t fit her body,” or “her teeth are too big.” i hadn’t really thought much of it until he commented on my appearance. he called me a “smedium.” just like any girl on earth i’m extremely sensitive about my body, especially since he looks like a greek god statue and can get any girl he lays eyes on (and these girls have rock hard bodies compared to my normal build). he told me that he says these kinds of things in front of me because he says i’m like a guy and i don’t know if i should take that as a compliment because he’s comfortable around me … or maybe he knows there’s no chance that this is going anywhere … or who knows. all i know is now i’m a million times more self conscious of my body around him and i’ve somehow managed to become more attracted to my crush even after all of this. HELP!? what should i do??

-Skyesquire

OK, so this “greek god statue” likes girls with “rock hard bodies” – are you sure you’re talking about a real human here? Because I can kind of picture you being some kind of retard who works in the maintenance department and perhaps spends a little too much time outside in the gardens. Your spelling and grammar are not changing my mind.

Let’s pretend for a moment that you’re not a retard – I have no idea what your actual question is. It sounds like there’s allegedly a male who talks about women’s physiques a lot, in your presence if you’re around, and it makes you feel bad about your body. And attracted to him. And you also think that there’s some sort of relationship happening here. Um, I’m just going to have to go with my first response here – you’re retarded.

And what’s “smedium?” Is that “small/medium” or just another retard mistake? Would love a clarification.

How would you feel about this?

I dated a girl for a year and half and then we broke up and after about a year and half we decided to get back together the only thing was she was living in Philly (I do not) but it was temporary and she was going to be back in late Aug. (got back together in april so figured I could do the LD thing until then) anyway now she is going on a month long road trip like right away. Is it just me or is that kind of shitty?

-topher

Dude. Did you just write the world’s worst run-on sentence on a fucking Cosmo message board? What’s kind of shitty is that you’re writing to Cosmo for advice. Isn’t there a site called AskMen for people like you (i.e. douches with penises)?

Here’s some womanly advice: stop being a whiny prick. Basically what I’m hearing is that you waited for this chick for a year and half, got back together with her in a long-distance relationship for five months, but you think it’s “shitty” that she’s going to be gone another month. What difference does it make? You’re clearly a townie loser that has nothing better going on than waiting around for this broad.

But if it’s really that stressful for you, why don’t you go on a long car ride and find out what Jesus would do.

Vanity is universally unattractive, but it is hard to draw the line between interest in one’s appearance and gross vanity. That’s why I’ve come up with a convenient formula to calculate how vain you are:

• Amount of time you spend thinking about appearance/Your ability to think more important things = % Vain.

So, in essence, if you are able to work on important things like world hunger or educating the poor, but you spend much of your day wondering how many calories it burns to stare at yourself in the mirror, then you are douchedrizzle.

However, if you fall into the camp of those who are too stupid to offer anything else to the world anyways, your vanity is less offensive than your actual existence. Add a dash of poverty to that stupid and vain cocktail, and you’ve got a shitshow on your hands that actually is mildly entertaining to the rest of us. Take, for example, the woman who performed plastic surgery on herself.

I guess if I were a total fucking moron, the combination of the bad economy and high costs of plastic surgery would lead me to think that it would be a good idea to inject my face with silicone lube. Oh wait, no it wouldn’t.

Please go watch the video for the gem, “Restylane, botox … that’s hundreds of dollars every time you have it done. Who can afford it?”

Um, not you. But by all means, by $10 lube and a needle and grab ahold of that elusive American dream. Hope you get facefucked!

In the end, this woman’s vanity prevented me from thinking about my appearance even once, since I was so busy considering what an imbecile she is. So perhaps she is making the world a better place.

There are so many types of people I hate, but the one group that elicits a desire to bash people’s faces in with a baseball bat is gutter punks, and/or trustafarians. You know, the privileged white kids who eschew their family’s wealth and go to squat in Haight-Ashbury, Portland, or Seattle like some kind of rite of passage before their trust fund becomes available, and beg for money as a choice and a way to procure heroin money in an authentic way. They should die.

Please tell me he is dead.

It’s like that fucking douchebag from that movie Sean Penn made, who was sad because his parents fought (aw! boo!), so after graduating from a good college he donated his trust fund money and hitchhiked to Alaska. I can’t even take pleasure in the fact that he died like all gutterpunks deserve to because I can never get the 3 hours of my life back that I spent watching that stupid movie.

Nothing ruins a night out to Martin Mack’s or Alembic like the kid holding the sign, “I need drinking money,” as if I don’t need my money for drinking as well. Um, yeah, I like to drink and do drugs too, fucktard, I just have a job to fucking pay for them. I don’t know if it’s because I look like a 14-year-old boy or wear Converse or whatever, but they seem to target me specifically, as if I’d be sympathetic to their cause. And by “cause,” I mean pointless existence + dreadlocks.

I hope facial tattoo = "Save My Baby" or "I'm Fucking Stupid."

Not only does the begging for meth money, or perhaps money for styling products to maintain their ever-fashionable mohawks, piss me off, but as a person from the east coast, I have no respect for west coast homeless people. They are bullshit. The homeless on the west coast either have been there since the Summer of Love and are simply unaware that it is over, or count themselves among these pussy gutter punks that think they’re badass for doing drugs and sleeping in parks and spreading fleas/sexually transmitted diseases.

This is offensive to someone from Boston who knows what real homeless people look like. They look like insane war vets who drink all day, and if they survive the winter, you give them a $20. They are the real deal. Like it’s not that tough to sleep outside when it’s over 60 degrees all the time, especially if you’re high.

And why do they always have dogs? It’s like they are thinking, “Clearly I’m too incompetent to take care of myself, but maybe I can take care of a dumber animal.” P.S. Dogs are smarter than gutter punks.

All it would take to round these fuckers up is the scent of patchouli and pot. And when they stumble towards us like zombies, but with better piercings and tattoos, can’t we just execute them? I don’t like sharing my drinking money.

The worst kind of blog posts in existence are the ones that begin with “I know I haven’t blogged in a while, but …,” which are inevitably penned by whiny, delusional people who think anyone gives a fuck that they have been busy or that their cat died.

I’d rather read a post about why Sarah Palin is a genius and would be a great next president than read that shit.

When I go to a blog that hasn’t been updated, I’m relieved because it’s one less thing I have to read. If it’s a good blog, I will go back to see if it’s updated later. If it’s a mediocre blog, it will be demoted to suck-ass blog if I have to read about the writer not posting because they moved, or they weren’t feeling well. I don’t care. Unless the goal of your blog is to write about excuses, please don’t take up my time with your lame ones.

Trust me, it is not the end of my world if you don’t post. I do not need to know that you really wanted to, but your in-laws were in town. I’ll be alright without you.

That is why I will not tell you that I haven’t written for a week because I was staying with my family, which is the equivalent of staying in an insane asylum in which I am like the Winona Ryder character in that movie, who is not as crazy as everyone else, but goes as crazy as everyone else for a bit because everyone else is so crazy. No. You don’t need to know that trying to think, nevermind write, amongst my siblings is like trying to ignore the schizophrenic voices without Thorazine.

I’m just not going to be one of those bloggers who makes excuses for my absence, that window of time that I was in my hometown for over a week with scarcely an internet connection, because I think it matters so much to you. I suspect you got by. Whereas I barely made it out unscathed, because I was so busy and stressed driving around trying to see my grandmother and my dad and my cousins. You don’t know how hard it was for me.

It is just so annoying when bloggers go on and on about the crazy drama in their lives, like anyone needs to know that my mom’s husband’s mother died, and everyone went to the funeral but me, including my disabled dad and his attention whore of a gay uncle, so that I was the pariah of the family. Like anyone gives a shit that my life is so much more fucked up than theirs that I can barely write.

No, I’m not going to be like those pathetic self-important bloggers who go on and on over missing one friggin post. Because that would be stupid.

I have no delusions about the financial potential of this blog. If there was a way to make money just by being bitchy, I would have been rich in high school and spending the past 12 years throwing diamonds from my penthouse apartment trying to impale people walking on the street below.

I do, however, think I could get free crap to write about, which would be awesome. There’s always marketing dudes getting thick in the midsection just waiting to prey upon someone who has spunk and low standards like me. But until I’m internet famous (for something other than my boob shots), I’m just going to review products I already have to let you know how they’ve been working out for me for however long I’ve had them, just for the practice.

Just because I’m new to product reviews doesn’t mean I’m going to act like a fucking amateur about it. All products will be reviewed according to the following criteria: design, utility, cost, and kickassness.

I’m kicking things off with a review of my dogs.

Dogs: too stupid to even look at the camera.

Product Specs: Two lhasa apsos. Respond to Kebpa and Doodle, or whatever I say to them in a baby voice. Weight: about 14lbs, plus or minus depending on fur.

Design: Fair. Aesthetically, these products look good. They come in a bunch of soft fur, and have big sad eyes. From a systems perspective, there are a few design flaws. Like they have to eat and shit and stuff. If I were to design these, I would eliminate all that processing, because it makes them less fun. Also, it seems like there’s some sort of bug in this version of dogs, because they sometimes throw up on my floor. To date, I have not received a recall notification.

Utility: Poor. The product is fairly useless. The producers claim that it has many applications, such as guarding the house, encouraging exercise, and reducing stress. None of these things have happened. In an attempt to make them more useful, I have alternately tried to use them as dust mops and feet warmers, but with limited success.

Cost: Varies. I got my products for free. I think I was supposed to give my sister money for them to cover start-up costs like shots and stuff, but I just ignored her phone calls for three months and evaded the fee. I recommend that technique with all debt collectors.

Kickassness. Overall, this product does not kick ass. It looks good from time to time, but no one has ever thought I was cool or witty because I have these dogs. Doodle did give my husband a facial once, which was great revenge for me. If I could train him to sperm on people on command, his kick ass factor would skyrocket.

In closing, I would not recommend these dogs to anyone, unless you are willing to dog-sit for me, then I will tell you they are totally well-behaved and cool to have around.

You always hear about the fashion police, but you never hear about hair police. This is the job I want to have. If you go to SuperCuts and try to act like you’re a civilized person, I should be able to make a citizen’s arrest, or, at least fine you for offending basic standards of appearance decency.

First of all, the fashion police are stupid. Who gives a shit about fashion? Whenever I look at a fashion magazine, I am reminded that fashion is ugly clothing designed for people with ugly skeleton bodies. Like I actually know somebody that said, “her clothes are so trendy, they’re almost ugly.” Gross. I’ll get my t-shirts at Target and my jeans at the Gap, thankyouverymuch.

Hair, on the other hand, is actually important. It is the picture frame for your face; everyone can see it and immediately know whether you have some sense of self-awareness and style, or if you’re a fucking retard with personal hygiene issues.

And like fashion, getting a trendy haircut isn’t the most important thing. Like all those douchebags that went in to ask for The Rachel in the 90s. Really?! Jennifer Aniston is the most boring looking person in Hollywood, first of all, and secondly, you’re fat and have wavy hair. Get it the fuck together.

People Whose Hair Sucks

Long Hair. Okay, let’s just call it what it is; if you have hair that goes past the middle of your back, you look insane. Think you look like a Victoria’s Secret model? You don’t. People with hair that long just look like those women they rescued from polygamous religious sects.

It is not sexy, it is not feminine, it is a walking violation of public health codes. Yes, you with the fucking horse tail on your back, you are a disease. Like the time I went to lunch with my sister, and this delusional blonde teenager with ass-length hair sat behind us. Because she didn’t want the get the dead mane on top of her head in her food, she pulled it back so that it was ON OUR TABLE. It took all restraint for me not to pin her down while my sister cut the dead animal attacking her head off. Long hair is disgusting.

White People with Dreadlocks. I’m not even going to pretend I know shit about black people hair; I don’t, so I reserve any and all judgment for what I do know about. And what I do know with certainty is that white people should not have dreadlocks. Ever. If you want to be black, take some fucking dance classes and wear baggy pants, don’t subject the rest of the world to something on top of your head that could only be describe as a rat king nest.

I have directly experienced this in philosophy class, when I mistook  a dreaded warlock for a hot guy and sat behind him. It turned out to be the most nauseating seat in the room, where I spent the rest of the semester reeling and hungover in class, forced to look at whatever dead skin, dirt, lint, small animals, etc. that got caught in this white dude’s dreads that were, by the way, not locking. I still dry heave whenever I see those lecture notes and think about what might have fallen out of his head.

Perms. Hi. 1987 called. They’re sending a DeLorean to pick you up and return you to the decade where your very existence isn’t offensive.

High bangs. I have no problem walking by a heroin addict and kicking him in the face, but I sincerely want to hold an intervention for every woman with big bangs that I see. Seriously. Don’t they have anyone in their lives that care about them enough to tell them that they haven’t looked good in 30 years?

Inevitably, these women still rocking this style are always thin, so I secretly think it’s their fat friends’ way of making them look like total assholes. That is, if you took a curling iron and some Aquanet to my husband’s asshole, and then took a picture, that is what these people look like. In fact, I show my mother the picture I happen to have of my husband’s asshole every time she complains that her hair doesn’t have enough “height.” Say that to me, and you get an asshole in the face.

Bleach Blonde Hair. Jesus Christ, Michael Jackson is dead from bleach addiction. Have we learned nothing from the man in the mirror? If the man in the mirror tells you you look like something that stumbled off the Jersey shore and was waterboarded in a vat of peroxide, then you need to make a … change. Nanana, nanana, nana nana.

If I didn’t name your hairstyle, it’s not because it isn’t horrible. It’s just not even memorable enough to warrant a category.  Think about it.

The first time anyone ever looked at me with awe and reverence over how bitchy I was, it took me by surprise. I was sleeping over Marie’s* house with 9 other girls after the 8th grade dance, and all the other ladies were gossiping and giggling about who looked good and who looked bad.

I listened for awhile, and just sat there with a gnawing sense that much was going unsaid. So I jumped in when they started talking about Tina*, the only Asian girl in our school who had a penchant for dresses with belly cutouts. I hated her, mostly because everyone thought she was nice, but also because she lacked any definable personality. This all came out of me easily, and as I spoke I noticed a few eyebrows raised.

And then I stood up and just started analyzing every person at the dance – the girls and their dresses, the boys and their awkward boners, the teachers and their lame longing for approval from 13 year olds. I was pacing, my voice going up and down, sweating a little as everyone sat rapt, and the vitriol just came out of me like a song. I had found my voice.

It never even occurred to me that not everyone had the same thoughts, or that I had never said any of these things out loud before, which is why I was so surprised when the group of girls just stared at me in wonderment when I was done with my rant. This is just the hatred I live with everyday, the soundtrack of disgust to my loathsome life.

* Names changed because it’s almost funnier that way.