My idea of the perfect life consists of being with a man that barely wants to deal with me and never wants to see me so there is the perpetual chase continuing forever. I live in my own house with my own servants where I wear underwear and silky robes all the time. When solicitors ring the front doorbell and Rosa answers it I will swoop down from the top of the stairs, the feathers from the cuff of my robe floating around my arms like halos of sexual enticement. COME TO ME, I AM YOUR OVERLY DRAMATIC ANTI-HERO.

Oh god, here is a complaint about men. Do not look at me and be like, “Uh, I cannot get an erection because I did too much blow.” Especially when you are the best looking guy ever because that is like saying, “Uh, I don’t even have to fuck properly cause I am fucking incredible looking.” Cause then I’ll get jealous cause no one invited me to do blow and I’ll be like I GUESS I SHOULD MAKE YOU FUCK ME NOW and then I pass out. Although, I do appreciate how a man will wake you up 47 thousand times to try and fuck you–even though he is loaded out of his mind and never will. What I appreciate even more is the fact that I will be like OK, LET’S DO THIS. Like I am the intro to Wild Thing by Tone Loc. Amazing.

I guess, here is another memo. I am incredible. I wish I lived in the 1930s and I would rob banks and live in a blaze of glory, riding across the land, fighting and bank robbing and getting shot up by the cops eventually. THAT IS HOW I WOULD LIKE TO GO OUT. Turns out, I will never really fucking rob any banks cause it is not that easy anymore and Big Brother is into everything and that is fucking sick. I just want to rob a bank and fuck in the getaway car. Is that too much to ask?