Winter is Lovely This Time of Spring

This morning, I woke up to snow.

If you’re wondering whether I live on some otherworldly planet that time forgot, rest assured that I actually live just outside Boston and the date is, in fact, March 31st.

Interestingly enough, any time the outside temperature dips below approximately 68 degrees, the thermostat in my office building immediately reverts to Hell Mode and churns up the heat to somewhere between Eyebrow Singeing and Charred Flesh. I have to spend a lot of my day walking outside to stand in a swirling mass of snow and rain just to cool down. It’s like a never-ending game of “Would You Rather” where the options are die slowly in a crushing fire or freeze to death in a block of ice, only you actually have to try them both out so you can make the most educated decision.

Tomorrow is April Fool’s Day, which seems fitting. The forecast, I’m pretty sure, is a tornado made of killer bees.


Anti-Aging: When Your Oldness is Simply Unacceptable

When exactly did ‘aging’ become absolutely the worst thing a woman could do?


Anti-aging from the people who brought you Silence of the Lambs.

Seriously, watch like six minutes of commercials and you will see three ads for cars (featuring young sexy women if the ad target is men or 20-something sexy moms if the ad target is women), four ads promoting weight loss (featuring young sexy women regardless of the ad’s demographic), and approximately 78,034 ads about aging. Or, rather, the sheer depravity of actually looking as if you are aging.

Basically, if you are a woman, there is no worse thing you can do than age. Really. I mean, you can age in the literal sense, like have birthdays and stop wearing mini-skirts, but you absolutely must never age in the way that involves getting wrinkles or not being sexy. Because being sexy is, as we all know, The Most Important Thing A Woman Will Ever Do. Ever.

And aging is, as we all know, The Most Horrible Thing A Woman Will Ever Do. We know this because the tv tells us so. Think about it: at any given time, your television (and computer and phone and various billboards and store windows and busses and salespeople and magazines and celebrities) are reminding you that you pretty much look like hell. Grey hair? Dye it immediately. Blemishes or dark spots? Try this cleanser. Bags under your eyes? Cover that shit up, girl. Worry lines on your forehead? What – do you not want to get a man? Stretchmarks or cellulite? I literally just threw up in my mouth.

Look younger AND change your ethnicity!

Let’s look at the term “anti-aging” for a moment. What does that actually mean? Do you know what the only real “anti-aging” product is? A gun. And do you know what the advertisement would be? A commercial of a young, sexy woman, with long, flowy, grey-free hair, and she would lay around in peach-colored satin sheets before saying, “Want to really stop the clock on aging? Now you can!” And then she would shoot herself in the face.

Oh, and then she would die. Because anti-aging is being dead. Or it would be some freakish Benjamin Button situation in which you actually get younger and younger with each passing year, and if this happened, I can guarantee that no one would like you. Seriously. You would be like, “Omg you guys! I’ve figured out the secret to anti-aging!” And everyone would be like “Get away from me you terrifying adult toddler!”

Once your shed your old zombie skin, you can re-emerge wearing the skin of the unsuspecting human you just ate.

Once you shed your old zombie skin, you can re-emerge wearing the skin of the unsuspecting human you just ate.

See the problem here? You really can’t win. This is because the whole “anti-aging” concept is a myth. A hoax. It’s impossible. And yet, it seems to be getting worse.

Maybe our great-grandmothers didn’t have this problem because people only used to live to like 30. Maybe back then, age was revered. People were like, “Yep, made it to 42! High-five.”

Somewhere along the way, though, a woman aging became pretty much synonymous with a woman going on a puppy-murdering spree, or pooping in the heating vent, or eating your leftover Chinese food. Basically, it is NOT OKAY.

So knock it off, already. Either kill yourself or turn into a baby, because anything else is really grossing everyone out.

Things That Make Me Want to Punch A Baby, Volume 1

The other day, a good friend asked me, “Do you ever write anything positive on your blog?”

I mused that over, and realized that I do, in fact, seem to have a penchant for bitter ranting and raving.

Therefor, I decided that now is as good a time as ever to put together a post that’s as cheerful and optimistic as kittens dancing in a bucket of Jell-O. Without further ado, I bring you what’s bound to be the first of many:

Things That Make Me Want to Punch A Baby
Volume 1
  • People who don’t tip at restaurants. If you can afford an inexpensive meal, you can afford an inexpensive tip. If you can afford an extravagant meal, you can afford an extravagant tip. It’s simple math, really. There’s a special place in hell for people who don’t tip their waitstaff, and every meal’s a sneezer. (snEEz-er: noun. Food that was sprinkled with bodily fluids because you’re an asshole.)
  • In general, anyone who is rude to waiters, hostesses, dry cleaners, delivery guys – you’re not a nice person if you’re not nice to your waiter, and no amount of bullshitting will make up for that. (Note to my single friends: if you’re on a first date and the dude is a dick to the waiter, he’s pretty much waving that Red Flag right in your face. Act accordingly.)
  • People who stuff their sweatshirts and suitjackets into the overhead compartments on airplanes. Really? Oh okay, I’ll just shove my rolling suitcase under my ass and prop my feet up on it in this fourteen square inches of space so that your sweater can be comfortable. Does your sweater need anything else? Can I get it a drink? (I’m assuming these aforementioned people are also the non-tippers. They just take their beloved sportsjackets out to dinner and the two are so giddy with lust that no one remembers to tip.)
  • Books with movie covers. This is just in case you were thinking about picking up a book, you see Tom Cruise on the cover and think, “Oh, right, I can just watch this book on my television! Silly me, I can’t believe I almost read. Gross.”
  • The Friends episode I was watching earlier in which Joey announced to his new agent, “I’m 25.” It’s a weird phenomenon to grow older than people who were grownups when you were nine.
  • Also, people who are 25 and are actually making a living at a fulfilling job rather than working six part-times/living with their parents/putting themselves through school/day-drinking and crying round the clock. No one likes a showoff – grab a beer a make some self-sabotaging choices like the rest of us did at your age.
  • People that drive the speed limit in the fast lane. If you do this, no one loves you, and you’re going to die alone. If you drive under the speed limit in the fast lane, you’re clearly some sort of sociopathic terrorist sent here to destroy America.
  • Mornings. Every morning. Without fail. Just once I’d like to have my eyes snap open, a smile already on my lips, my feet poised to bound out of bed like people in orange juice commercials. Instead, I literally make a deal with the devil every single time my alarm clock goes off to let me press snooze just one. more. time. I’m not going to tell you the terms, but let’s just say at some point he’s going to collect and A LOT OF SHIT is gonna go down.
  • People who start sentences with “No offense, but…” Say no more. I already hate you.
  • Girls that wear a full face of makeup at the gym. It’s one thing if you’re coming from work and you’re still sporting some eyeliner; it’s quite another when you clearly put on false lashes and cream blush just before your trip to the elliptical. Working out is awful enough without having your perfect ponytail and painted brows bouncing next to me in the mirror while I’m looking like a sweaty monkey wearing the mask from Scream.
  • Duvet covers. There is absolutely no feasible way to actually fill a duvet cover from end to end and corner to corner with your comforter. It’s physically impossible, because science.
  • Facebook. Okay, don’t get me wrong, I have a facebook because I live on earth but here’s the issue: You know how, sometimes, you’re walking around thinking, “Why, my life is pretty okay!” Maybe you have a job, maybe you’re in a fulfilling relationship or you’re happily single, maybe you just mastered a level of Candy Crush that’s been torturing you for weeks. You take a look in the mirror and say, “I. Am. Awesome.”

Wrong. Facebook is here to remind you that literally every single person you have ever known is doing much better than you are. Haven’t made it to Italy? Everyone you know is studying abroad! Feeling okay about waiting a few years before you walk down the aisle? Sorry, loser, but all your friends have four kids already and they’re loving it. Wondering whether you should have leftover pizza and fistfuls of peanut butter for lunch? All the girls you went to school with are busy shucking their own pesticide-free organic corn to make homemade fiber bars for the homeless. Loving the way you look in that new bathing suit? Come on, fatty, everyone else is doing crossfit and living on chia seeds alone.

Facebook is like the world’s snooty, suck-up coworker who exists to prove that you actually suck way more than you thought you did, and that all of your accomplishments are like seven years later than everyone else’s. Nice try, failure.

Dear Lady Gaga: You’re Hurting Women. Please Stop.

Dear Lady Gaga,

I know a lot of people are talking about you right now, and calling you names, and tweeting about how #gross your show was the other night. That’s exactly the result you must have been hoping for, and so, most likely, you’re probably just counting your money and congratulating yourself on having been the freakshow flavor of the week. (For now.)

I hope, though, that you’ll take a second to actually hear what people are saying to and about you, and allow yourself to listen, and to learn from your colossal mistake.

I used to really like you and a lot of the things you stood for. You’ve spoken out in favor of gay marriage and anti-bullying campaigns. You’ve broken barriers in fashion and music and sales. You’re kind of funny and quirky and different and you got really popular really fast. Also, your voice is pretty awesome and your songs were really great.

Here’s the thing, though. After the stunt you pulled at your show Thursday night, I think it’s time you heard the truth.

You’re hurting women.

Not just adult women, either. Teenagers. Little girls. Women of all shapes and sizes and backgrounds and with hopes and dreams similar to yours.


Last Thursday, you decided that it would be edgy or cool to have a skinny young woman hold back her hair, stick her fingers down her own throat, and force herself to vomit over your body as you sang for an audience in Austin, Texas. You shouted, “Fuck you pop music!” into the crowd in the midst of the charade, even though, without pop music, I’m pretty certain you wouldn’t be the millionaire you are. You probably thought this was all very unexpected or hoped it would make you stand out from other cookie-cutter pop stars.

You were wrong.

Look, I get that there’s some sort of desperation to hold on to fame. I mean hey, Ozzy Osbourne used to bite the heads off of bats during his shows. God forbid the world isn’t talking about you for sixteen seconds, right? Maybe you’re pissed that everyone’s been tweeting about Amanda Bynes for going crazy or Justin Beiber for getting arrested and you wanted to grab the headlines. Better to have people laughing at you or hating you than not talking about you at all, I guess.

But here are just a few of the reasons why your publicity stunt was damaging to your millions and millions of female fans:

For one, romanticizing the act of a woman, any woman, sticking her fingers down her throat and forcing herself to throw up hurts every single woman who is suffering from a very real eating disorder.

Sexualizing that is inexcusable.

Using it as fodder for your act shows how out of touch you really are, and how little you care for your fans (especially the female ones). I realize that every time a celebrity makes a terrible decision, they start whining about how they don’t want to be a role model, but you lost that luxury the second you started putting on wire-rimmed glasses and advocating for human rights. Not only did you choose to be a role model, but you relished the title.

Before the performance, you appeared on Jimmy Kimmel Live in a dress (made of coffee filters, #youresoedgy) which covered you from head to toe. You said of the dress: “I just really wanted to be comfortable for the interview, that’s why I wore it, because I’m really fat right now.”

So first, we have the oh-so-overdone body shaming (“omg you guys, I’m sooo fat right now, but I’m totes gonna take off all my clothes tonight at my show!”), and hours later, we have a women vomiting all over you, on purpose. Good one.

You have admittedly suffered from your own eating disorder, and said in an interview with Harper’s Bazaar just last February,

“I don’t have an eating disorder anymore.  I’m also better at not letting people take advantage of me….I should be around people who cherish my talents, my health, my time.”

I’m sorry, I guess I’m confused. How, exactly, do you expect people to applaud your talents when you seem to be so insecure about your ability as a singer and songwriter that you feel compelled to punctuate your performances with actual vomit just to be noticed?

The craziest thing of all is that you actually are a mega-talented musician who’s earned incredible success all over the world. Remember?

So anyway, after the vomiting, you and the apparent-bulemia-sufferer gyrated all over each other in your underwear, because God only knows that a female entertainer is only relevant when she’s pretending to be sexually aroused by another woman.

So, besides making a mockery of eating disorders and society’s strangle-hold on women’s body image, you also used your (disingenuous) sexuality to sell tickets. Wow, how shocking and bold. That’s never been done before.

Apparently, you then rode on a mechanical pig while the same woman pretended to hump you and continued vomiting on you. Since this was immediately following a song that you claimed was “about rape and rage”, Rolling Stone inferred that this charade was supposedly positioning you “as a metaphorical survivor of rape.”

If someone has to explain to you why getting paid millions of dollars to gyrate on stage and generate tweets by having a woman throw up on you on purpose is not like rape, then this situation is much worse than I thought.

You want to be edgy? You want to be different from all the other pop stars? What if, instead of parading around in fishnets and rubbing another person’s vomit all over your breasts, you came out onstage in, like, a pair of jeans, and like…a shirt. And, oh, I dunno, sang songs and played piano. And…this is nuts, but…what if you just performed your music and relied on your talent and ability rather than your ass and midriff.

That would be shocking. That would be radical.

Maybe then you’d stand out from the rest of them, instead of telling the world that even you don’t think you’re worth anything fully-dressed and clean of bodily fluids. And what’s worse: that maybe no woman is.

You don’t have to fill your mouth with bat-heads when you actually have something to say.

Stop hurting women. Please.


A fan. Of women.

An Open Letter to My Racist Neighbor, or: My Dog is a Better Person Than You

So yesterday I witnessed the strangest and most unexpected display of racism that I’ve ever seen in real life. Since most people don’t actually think that they’re racist, you might be surprised to hear that it was you, O Racist One, who was the star of the show.


This is not my dog, but I assure you that my dog is just as awesome.

Here’s a recap:

You, A White Person, became irritated at A Black Person (or otherwise darkly-hued individual of unknown ethnicity whom you assumed to be “black”) for crossing the street in front of your car. From what I could tell, the two of you engaged in a verbal argument which culminated in you (the White Person) calling him (the Black Person) the N-word. Like…a lot. Also, you threatened him with violence, called him several other terms which I will not print here (even with little stars in the place of the vowels), and said things like, “I’m not the [n-word] here. You are, you f*cking [n-word]. Do I look like a [n-word] to you?”


If we’re taking “the n-word” to mean bad, nasty, ugly, cruel, stupid, ignorant, uneducated, immature, disgusting, or backwards, then I have to say that yes, in fact. You do look like that.

Since you and I had crossed paths many times before, exchanging pleasantries and talking about our dogs, I guess I had assumed a few things about you. You’ve never been mean to me, so I suppose I assumed you were kind. You seem to be pretty cool to your dog, so I may have imagined you were a lover of animals (like, um, humans). You don’t immediately look like a demon, and you generally don’t carry any visible weapons or severed heads, so I guess I prematurely decided that you weren’t some sort of sociopath. (But then, that’s probably what all severed-head-carrying-sociopaths want us to think.)

Really, though, I didn’t know the truth about you because I, like you, am A White Person. (Which makes me a-okay in your book, I guess.)

I’m actually not sure what you were so mad about. Were you mad because the guy walked in front of your car? You you upset because he looked at you a certain way? Was he someone who has wronged you in the past, and you saw this as the perfect moment to exact your revenge?

Here’s the thing, though: Even if this guy was, like, a total douche, or waltzed in front of your car as you were trying to park and shot you a “sorry-not-sorry” type of look which I know can be super annoying and inconvenient, and even if you felt like you just had to say something: isn’t it at all possible that you could have thought of some other way to say it?

I take it you’re not at all clever, so I’ve kindly thought of some examples:

“Excuse me, but I’m trying to park here.”

Too mellow? Okay, I hear ya. What about something like, “Hey, buddy, why don’t you move it along?”

Not really driving the point home? Alright, I didn’t want to do this, because this blog is a classy place, but how about: “Get out of my way, asshole!”

Because, see, if you had said any one of these things, I would probably be on your side. I would think, “Why, my kind, animal-loving neighbor has been inconvenienced by this inconsiderate gentleman!” I would rush to your defense.

But you didn’t do that. You didn’t defend yourself or your position with language or reason or logic or respect. You didn’t explain why you were angry or try to talk it out. You didn’t ignore the situation and move forward with your life, letting bygones be bygones and inconsiderate assholes be inconsiderate assholes.

Instead, you took the easiest, most destructive path you could think of. Like millions before you, you decided to turn a conflict of interest into a conflict of power, asserting something about him, and about you, that you mistakenly think makes you Better Than. That other dude didn’t “play the race card.” You did.

You took the coward’s way out.

I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t defend him, or contradict you. I was afraid of making the situation worse or scarier or further agitating you in some way. I’ve wished all day that I had said something so that he knew I didn’t feel that way about him, that I didn’t think he was scary or stupid or worthless. In fact, like you, I didn’t know anything about him at all.

I can’t imagine what it must feel to be reduced to a slur every time I bug someone. I’m White, and Heterosexual, and Middle-Class, and a few other things which put me in The Majority. Which is a pretty good place to be, especially if you happen to walk in front of some racist’s car.

Listen, if you get into a fight with A Gay Person, and your only response is to call them a faggot, you are a homophobe. If you get into a fight with A Woman, and the only insult you can think of is “bitch” or “slut,” you have a serious problem with women. If you get into a fight with A Black Guy, and all that comes to mind is the n-word, you are a racist.

Oh and also, you’re probably pretty stupid.

So anyway, the other dude walked past me, and into the evening. For all we know, this was just one of hundreds of racial minefields he navigates daily, desperately trying not to get blown up.

You looked at me, smiled, called out, “Goodnight!” and retreated into your house.

My dog tried to chase after you, but I caught her leash and walked her home.

You are not a good person, and I don’t think I want our dogs to play together anymore. I don’t want your ignorant and pathetic backwards beliefs or utter lack of rhetoric and human decency to rub off on her, because she loves everybody. Even you.

If You Don’t Want Your Vagina on Facebook, Don’t Bring it to Work With You

You know, just yesterday I was whining about how my mind was empty of things to write about and worrying that I’d reached my blogging peak after just five little posts.

And then, this morning, I woke up to this: Massachusetts court says “upskirt” photos are legal.

Honestly, it’s like the universe swaddled me in a blanket of puppies and whispered, “Here you go. This is just for you.”

In case you missed it, this is pretty much what happened:

A few years ago, a creepy dude was caught taking creepy pictures with his cell phone on a subway train. He wasn’t documenting his dinner for Instagram or finding the perfect selfie angle for his mom (like, you know, a normal person). Instead, he was secretly taking pictures up the skirts of women with whom he was not acquainted.

In other words, he was trying to get shots of strange chicks’ vaginas, or underwear, or butts, or whatever. Without their knowledge.

You know, because it’s super tough to just find pornography online or on television or in a store or in your imagination, and everyone knows it’s way better to make your own. With people who don’t know they’re involved in it. Surprise Porn, as I like to call it (patent pending).

Anyway, so this guy got caught and went to court, as creepy Surprise Porn directors tend to do.

So far, you’re probably nodding along, thinking, “Yes…yes…this all seems to make sense…I, for one, would rather not have my vagina on your iCloud…” because you are a Human Woman and you brazenly assume that the only people who are allowed to enjoy your underwear and what’s beneath it are those who are expressly invited. (I know, I know, we women have gotten so uppity.)

Well stop nodding and lock up your crotches, because here’s the kicker:

Today, Massachusetts’ highest court ruled that the Secret Subway Crotch Photographer was, in fact, engaging in a perfectly legal activity. (Like you, I’m assuming that “highest court” is referring to the amount of pot smoked by these esteemed individuals in order to make such a ruling.)

Here’s why:

According to Chapter 272, Section 105(b) of Massachusetts General Laws,

“Whoever willfully photographs, videotapes or electronically surveils another person who is nude or partially nude, with the intent to secretly conduct or hide such activity, when the other person in such place and circumstance would have a reasonable expectation of privacy in not being so photographed, videotaped or electronically surveilled, and without that person’s knowledge and consent, shall be…punished.” (Emphasis mine.)

According to, the high court ruled that the practice of attempting to photograph up a woman’s skirt on the subway did not violate said law because the women who were photographed while riding Boston public transportation were not nude or partially nude.

Basically, because the women were wearing clothing to cover their sweet-smelling lady-bits, they were not assuming the expectation of the privacy of said lady-bits. Even though…you know…they covered them…for privacy. I know, it’s a brain teaser.

So, since I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl, I’m going to choose to see the silver lining here. The good news is this: for those of you who generally ride the subway butt-ass naked, you’re fully protected under the law! NO ONE has a right to take a picture of your bare undercarriage as long as it’s totally exposed to the world! Thank goodness the law is finally catching up with the times, and I can rub my delicate vaginal skin right on a warm, vomit-stained train seat without fear of someone exploiting my body by taking a photo.

really feel like women and the constant objectification of our bodies is being taken seriously.

There is a downside, however. (I know, I’m really reaching.) The ruling states that the women photographed supposedly were not allowed the expectation of privacy for another reason: They had willingly entered into a public setting.

I mean, if they had just stayed home instead of having the audacity to pay for and ride public transportation (with their vaginas with them, no less!), no one would have bothered with their hoo-has at all! It’s so simple, really: don’t go in public, and the public won’t exploit you! Duh. I mean, it’s sort of like how us ladies should just stop getting raped all the time, rather than assuming that other human beings might not rape us!

I’m really getting so sick of all these women thinking they can just go gallivanting around, vagina in tow, and just expect that no one is going to reach up underneath their clothing and try to snap a secret photo to jerk off to later.

But, for those of you “progressive-type” girls who don’t want to find your vagina getting photobombed on Tumblr, I offer this advice:

Go everywhere naked to legally protect yourself from unwanted photographers.

If you must wear clothing, then stay inside your house. Once you’re out in the world, all bets are off. Your vag is fair game. Do you really need to work and go to school and socialize and shop and pick up your kids, anyway? I mean, at that point, aren’t you really just asking for it? 

Honestly, if you’re taking your vagina outside, you might wanna slap some lipstick on the ol’ girl. Her fifteen minutes of fame could be right around the corner. Of the subway. Where that creepy guy is sitting.

If You Can’t Say Something Nice, Maybe You’re An Asshole

So here’s something I really don’t understand about the internet: When did it become so socially acceptable to be a complete assface online while pretending to be a human in real life?

One of the (many) things that made me hesitant to start a blog is the sheer volume of venom that spews through the giant invisible wires of the World Wide Web. (It’s powered by giant invisible wires, right?)

I mean, by now we’ve all learned that people who lurk in the comments section of literally anything on the internet are a collection of evildoers so foul that even their mothers don’t love them, but that doesn’t prevent their ignorant/racist/sexist/ageist/hateful/prejudiced/cowardly/petty/dumbass opinions from being hurtful. Before I started this blog, I read many other blogs, and often I would read the vitriol in the comments section and think, “Seriously, I just can’t do it.”

Here’s why: I know that I am not thick-skinned. In fact, I am quite thin-skinned, like a delicate, sweet-smelling tomato. And I have no doubt that the moment someone writes something on my blog like, “Omg you suck you should go die,” I will, in fact, go die. My supple tomato-skin will be unable to protect me.

If you think I’m overreacting, go open literally anything written by anyone on the internet. Read the article, smile or frown or laugh or think along with the words and facts and opinions put forth there, and then scroll on down past the ads for hemorrhoid cream and take a gander at the comments section.

An example:

Let’s say you have a blog about fashion. It’s gotten kind of popular, and it’s been featured on some other fashiony website, and your life is pretty great. And let’s say one day you write a little post about the various ways to tie scarves. And you’re feeling pretty good about yourself because you’ve come up with scarf-knots suitable for every occasion, from work to day-drinking to the walk of shame. When it comes to tying scarves, you are professor and chair.

Now, for a day or two, your comment section will consist of a handful of regulars applauding your efforts and thanking you for your scarf-tying proficiency. You will pat yourself on the back and bask in your own scarf-knotting glory.

And then, as suddenly as a refreshing drink of water that goes down the wrong pipe and momentarily convinces you that you’re drowning, a strange thing will happen. (This is assuming that your blog, unlike mine, is read by more than six people.)

Someone, somewhere, will write some form of the following:

Evildoer 1: “so i love ur blog but this is a miss! that scarf looks sso gross lol”

Okay, well, that’s alright. You’re a brilliant writer and fashionista and obviously not everyone is going to share your style and anyway a lot of people like it and also she wrote “lol” so it’s totally just friendly criticism! You’re super secure, lol.

Inevitably, someone who likes you will follow that first comment with:

Friendly Participant: “That’s so mean! This blog is amazing and your scarves all look AWESOME – don’t worry about the haters!”

And this will feel good. This will act as a salve healing the burn of the first comment, and the sting will disappear. And you’ll think to yourself, “I have many supporters and I am well loved.”

However, just as you’re congratulating yourself on reacting so maturely to adversity, something unexpected will happen. That supportive comment will, confusingly, rile up Evildoer 1 and a million of her internet-lurking friends.

Evildoer 1: “wow lol its not mean its a opinion! ew ur like in luv with scarfs ur like the scarf police lol”

Evildoer 2: “LOL sCaRF pOLicE tHatS sO tRUe!!”

Evildoer 3: “Seriously, this blog used to be a place where different people could share their opinions openly, but now people get shut down just for not agreeing with your scarf-tying? Way to alienate your fans. You’ve definitely lost a reader.”

Evildoer 4: “yeh u suck so bad now, also ur ugly ttyl bye”


Evildoer 6: “No one cares about your scarves. You should kill yourself.”

Evildoer 7: “This post is the most elitist garbage I’ve ever seen. Some people don’t even have scarves. Think about that while you’re walking around with all your scarves. Our society’s obsession with consumerism makes me sick to my stomach.”

Evildoer 8: “that blue scarf make u look like a slut”

Evildoer 9: “Hi! I’ve never commented but I’m a longtime reader, and I just felt really compelled to speak up about this – aren’t you a mother? It just seems to me that your time would really be better spent building an environmentally friendly whole fruit and herb garden with your kids rather than worrying about trivial things like fashion. I’m not saying you’re a bad mom and I’m totally not judging you, I promise! I just feel really bad for your children.”

Evildoer 10: “Yeah what is this teaching your daughter, like oh you have to wear scarves so men will like you, seriously why dont you just buy her a stripper pole”

Evildoer 11: “u just wear scarves cuzz u have a fat neck, u need to werkout! im soso sick of lazy peeple, its called BEING HEALTHHY”

Evildoer 12: “fake”

Evildoer 13: “Those scarves are really fucking racist.”

You probably won’t even get to Evildoer 13, though, because by that point you’re too busy crafting a noose out of the scarves you once loved.

Basically, the moral of the story is this: If you wouldn’t say it to someone’s face, don’t say it on the internet. And if you would say it to someone’s face, there’s a pretty strong possibility that you’re just a terrible person.

But I’m totally not judging you. I promise.