So you’ve picked up this book thinking it would be the perfect beachside read to lighten your spirits like some majestic unicorn bound in paper or maybe you thought it would make a great happy first period gift for your niece. In the first case, thanks mom but you already have a copy and in the second instance for goodness sake that is a terrible idea go throw her a party and invite all the cute boys she writes about in her journal. Also make a banner and splash it with some fake blood and have a cute red punch bowl, keep it classy and elegant. Shower her in pig’s blood.
This is exactly what your niece would want I know I’m a professional hip teenager. Ok maybe that’s an overstatement. I mean I act like a fifty year old in menopause and pretty much hate most people my age but I watch a lot of 80’s high school movies and I know a party isn’t hip hop happening unless there are some side pony tails and a murder to cover up. Or something.
Did I mention I hate people my age? Seriously, I can out bitch your grandma when talking about “kids these days” with their drugs and their twerking. I long for the day I’m considered old enough to lose my shit and wear cat sweaters with sequins on them, or tasteful jogging ensembles. My 90 year old neighbor mistook me for a striking woman in her 60s and proceeded to tell me it wasn’t too late for vaginal rejuvenation because she saw something about it on Oprah. I mean who does she think I am? Of course I saw that Oprah episode.
Basically if you were looking for a novelized version of a sarcastic little shit’s inner monologue you have found it. Congrats. I’ve written it with full knowledge that you’re going to laugh at and not with me but it’ll be like re-living your high school glory days. Feel free to try to give this book a swirly. If your teen daughter is ever seen looking into the distance with a quiet smile on her face she’s probably thinking about butts or something I cover in this book or seriously butts because they’re great. Prepare to cringe as I try to navigate life with as little social interaction as possible and as much social anxiety as I can muster (seriously it’s a gift).
Everything in here is pretty true, it all happened at some point or another. And names are changed to protect me from people I just really want to bitch about. Especially you Sarah. Also, if you were deterred by the fact I talked about periods you should probably put the book down and retreat back into your own little world where women pour blue liquid into pads or something.
I’ve been described as Daria if she was a little chunkier and blonde. And less witty. And didn’t have kick ass indie chic friends with cool older brothers. And she was Canadian. Ok maybe less Daria and more John Travolta in Hairspray. But a really sarcastic John Travolta in Hairspray.
Possible names for this book thing I’m writing
Another Harry Potter book
Angry Girl yells at things
My mad fat diary (taken)
Some Gay fanfiction
Oh look an angry teenager
Star Trek: the high school frontier
Did someone say emotionally unstable?
Possibly better than the last Dan Brown book
(In which I’m a Hawaiian physicist who falls in love with a native girl and must throw away logic to embrace his chance at finally being happy after a bitter divorce with his ex-wife who turns out to be an alien)
Why do I think I’m qualified to write a book? I mean it’s really hard; I basically have to be continuously witty which is hard because half of my thoughts are dick jokes.
Mom: Ok seriously, how do you get Bob from Robert?
Me: Rob, Bob, I don’t know.
Mom: and Bill from William?
Me: not a clue.
Mom: and how do you get Dick from Richard?
Me: You ask him nicely.
Alright I think I’m doing this for street cred. I mean my mom did say I needed to do more after school activities and starting a gang seemed like a good idea. Turns out gangs don’t snap and do choreographed dance routines. I feel lied to. So a book was a moderately less violent way to occupy time I could be spending complaining about things. And it makes me sound pretty cool.
Person: what have you been up to?
Me: Oh you know, I’m writing a book.
Person: Oh that’s cool, like a diary thing or..?
Me: *flips hair* More like a modern depiction of the fragility of the human psyche told through the guise of a thrilling coming of age story.
Person: you’re writing dick jokes aren’t you.
But hey, I could be pretty decent at this: I had a pretty shitty childhood I can draw traumatic experiences from…I think that’s like the only prerequisite. That and grade 11 English.