Dear Catherine Hardwicke, Summit Entertainment, and Whom It May Concern:

You fucking fail me.

I was going to shrug this off as one of them “the book was better” humdingers, but a couple bottles of wine and two days later, I am angry as Hades. That said, I’m gonna go ahead and make the assumption that you have failed every 13-17 year old female Hot Topic-obsessed Twilight fangirl who stayed awake late at night painting the ideal portrait of the book saga into their own fragile minds. Vulnerable, we waited with our “TEAM EDWARD” and “TEAM JACOB” shirts and motionless “Edward loves Bella” computer wallpapers for MONTHS with the hopes that your fancy $37 million budget wouldn’t let us down, but it did. Oh, how it did.

And furthermore, by doing so you not only exploited the living (er –undead) literary magic that lies within the pages of our dog-eared and belovedTwilight paperbacks (do you know that book has replaced the BIBLE on my nightstand?!), but you ever so blatantly sodomized the fact that this movie came with a built-in fanbase. How fucking dare you.

You know who you are? You are the arrogant skinny chick that everyone loves to loathe. The skinny chick who doesn’t EVER pay for her own drinks at the bar. That obnoxious skinny chick who thinks she doesn’t have to work during sex because she’s so hot. What’s obnoxious to me is the American Psycho style of dismemberment you successfully executed in this movie, with that paper-thin, patchwork plot development and one-take, shaky-cheek acting we all suffered through.

The thing is, in no way, shape or form does your studio film measure up to even an ounce of the expectations we had, and your futile attempt falls very, very short of resembling any form of credible entertainment.

I just thought you should know.
Best,

Casey Cupcakes

P.S. – Stephenie Meyer, I ain’t mad at ya girl.

—-

Twilight Movie Poster

Twilight journeys us through the love story of two star-crossed teenage lovers mirroring a more sophisticated Romeo and Juliet. The relationship depicted in the film is between a vampire, Edward Cullen (played by the smoldering Robert Pattinson) and a mortal schoolgirl, Bella Swan (Kristen Stewart). The duo’s dynamic is as tortured and intense as it is rushed, and I was silly to think that the film could ever do justice to Stephenie Meyer’s gorgeous fictional tale. The film itself lacks in thorough character development, making it difficult for even a well-versed fan to keep up, let alone a Twilight virgin. However, I must note that the Cullen family was a superior choice in cast, each family member more than accurately reflecting their physical and emotional depictions in the book. The Cullens genuinely light up the screen and resurrect true life to the film’s undead.

Cast:

Edward Cullen: Robert Pattinson

Bella Swan: Kristen Stewart

Esme Cullen: Elizabeth Reasor

Dr. Carslile Cullen: Peter Facinelli

Alice Cullen: Ashley Greene

Emmet Cullen: Kellan Lutz

Rosalie Cullen: Nikki Reed

Jasper Cullen: Jackson Rathbone

Charlie Swan: Billy Burke

Jacob Black: Taylor Lautner

James: Cam Gigandet

Victoria: Rachelle LeFevre

The Cullen Family

The story begins when 17-year old Bella Swan moves to the small town of Forks, Washington mid-semester, with her single father — accompanied by no friends and little social life. She makes instant friends with an old family friend, Jacob Black, a Native-American two years Bella’s junior, who gives her the 411 on the mysterious Edward Cullen. Mid-way through the film Edward Cullen takes an insatiable draw to her, not because of a lighthearted puppy love, but because his vampire senses cannot resist her, for she smells more exquisite to him than anyone in his century-old existence. Their need for each other becomes undeniable, and as the story goes, the “lion fell in love with the lamb” … thus leaving everything in their wake history. The remainder of the story is laced with high school hijinks, werewolf myths, vampire baseball games and antagonist James’ hunt for Bella — providing for a picture-perfect vampire battle in a poetic ballet studio at the end of the film. The audience is left with a metaphorical carrot dangling loosely in the foreground, as we depart while Bella pleads with Edward to make her immortal.

Pattinson carries the film as leader of the Cullen pack, a surrogate family of age-old “vegetarian”(no sacrificing humans, only animals) vampires, with a smirk and a sexy saunter. Previously seen in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire as the ill-fated Cedric Diggory, Pattinson delved so into the role of Edward that he was overheard on set proposing to his on-screen lover, Stewart. “I didn’t speak for about two months so I would seem really intense,” he admitted. His intensity translates lucidly on screen, while Stewart as Bella is over-acted and desperate. While the film encapsulates the skeletal story of Bella and Edward, it falls very short at bridging the gaps between character enactment in the book. For example, Bella and Alice Cullen’s sisterly friendship isn’t even lightly touched upon, nor is the full back story of the film’s vampire villains, James and the flame-haired Victoria — both of whom hold a large part of the storyline and motives in New Moon (the second installment of the four-part saga).

The film did excel in cinematography and musical score, as it is shot against the lush backdrop of Portland, OR. The tree and meadow scenes are breathtaking; and they are perfectly paired with the radiance of a vampire’s skin when it is hit by sunlight. The soundtrack is as hipster/indie as a Silverlake dive bar, but the use of numerous Muse tracks not only adds to the energy of the scene, but it also holds an important role to the development of the books as well. Meyer even includes a “thanks” to the band at the end of the  Twilight novel and explains that she was able to visualize most of her scenes with the aid of their albums on a continuous loop. I must say, it struck quite a chord to hear the Muse song, Supermassive Blackhole, layered over the forest baseball scene, as I envisioned Meyer blasting the song in her home while furiously scribbling the book to life.

While a shudder occurred when I first heard that New Moon was greenlit, I know I’ll remain loyal to my appreciation for the saga in its entirety. I fucking hate you Hollywood, but there’s no denying my love for the story that had me at first bite.

GRADE: C

My ability to write has been stifled since Friday, October 17. I have not been able to wholly articulate the extreme range of emotions I’ve experienced since that weekend in any form of productive communication, and I cannot rationalize it. I believe part of the reason is because some of the things I saw and felt that weekend left me truly baffled. I believe part of the reason is because you as the reader, do not hold the ability to empathize with said events without witnessing them for yourself. I believe part of my block is also because I’m afraid to say the words out loud and put them into tangible existence. I don’t want one drop of this experience’s holiness to be stripped away by unforgiving and judgmental eyes. I do not believe there are enough words in my vocabulary or in eternity itself to serve it the justice it deserves… and that said, 90% of me believes that what I’m about to say cannot be re-lived or detailed by a few wordy paragraphs and candid photos, but only felt in the bottom of my passionately pumping heart.

Enter Burning Man.

In “Breaking Open The Head” by Daniel Pinchbeck, he details the Burning Man experience as “more decadent than Warhol’s Factory, more glamorous than Berlin in the 1920’s, more ludicrous than the most lavish Busby Berkeley musical, more of a love-fest than Pepperland, more anarchic than Groucho Marx’s Freedonia, more implausible than any mirage.”

The event I attended was not Burning Man. It was ‘Decompression,’ a post-Burning Man camping trip for the Southern California “Burners.” Everything I experienced was on a significantly smaller scale than what Burning Man encompasses (for example, 50,000 people attend Burning Man annually; about 150 attended Decom), but looking forward to my first burn in August ‘09, I was determined to show up and get my feet wet. Aside from hearing about some of the music and art that was to be expected there, I knew little else about the trip. So there I was, on a blind journey into to the San Diego desert with a couple hundred strangers (soon to be companions). Not to mention traveling there with a person I had met about 6 hours prior to departure. Fate (God, kismet, a random set of occurrences, pick your poison) has an extremely sly way of dealing the cards … and today things have never burned so bright.

As a disclaimer, the majority of this is going to sound like some straight up “hippie shit” to you. I know that. But this is MY experience. That said, I also know that me without words is a remarkable feat; and anything that has such a consequential impact on me should most definitely be documented. Above all, I want to have something to cling to when this grandeur gently softens. In order to stay as close to the story as possible, I am going to copy the majority of this straight from my travel journal.

***

Destination: Mars on Earth (Somewhere outside of San Diego)

Friday October 17

1:26pm

Packed and ready to go

Julian is sick, so he is not coming to Decompression. Put me in touch with his friend Kosta (Kostas? Kos…what?) whom I’ve never met before. I was under the impression a group of us would be going together. Headcount: 2. Damn you Julian. However, I am determined to have a spectacular god damned weekend, and nothing will stop me from getting there.

Let’s re-cap. Camping with someone I’ve never met before, for the entire weekend.

Not to mention a 3 hour car ride each way.

This should be interesting.

***

Saturday, October 18

Somewhere around 3am

I am a lone observer

Smooth ride here laced with smokes and Red Bulls. It seems a long night ahead of us is approaching. A few things about my new friend:

• His name, Kosta, is a derivative of the Greek “Konstantine,” (he’s full-blooded)
• Traveled through Los Angeles to Denver on a BIKE
• Lives in a ship-house
• Drives an eco-friendly automobile
• Studied as a monk in Europe for an extended period of time
• Is unusually inquisitive. And nice. Really fucking nice.
• Brings stuffed animals for strangers as gifts to Burning Man events

I sit from outside the dance floor and watch the people dancing under flashing lights with costumes and hula hoops, everything is foreign. I tuck my hands further into my pockets as I feel that my ‘cool in LA’ skeleton mittens are a tad douchey here, where boundaries of fashion are not obeyed, but offensively crossed.

I do not want to dance, I am in jeans and a sweater. I stand out like a sore thumb in the mirage of colors swirling before me.

Took a trip to the uber fluorescent DIY craft tent where miscellaneous materials like stripey scraps of fabric and glow-in-the-dark puffy paint wait for someone not as repressed as I to unleash some unbridled creativity. All I see are shapes and colors, not the potential that lies within them.

What can I make, besides a mask or a hat? I ask.

Whatever your little heart desires. She said.

It’s okay to be whoever you want. She meant.

*

Dear Universe, help me break down these walls.

*

4:25am

Time ticks by until we can load in the car and our camping stuff at 6am. Things have died down a bit, but Kosta continues to dance to his own beat.

And the beat doesn’t stop.

Gyrating, kicking, writhing, jumping, no rhyme or reason.

Hands in pockets hands swirling in air hands on bare hips hands.

No “why are you writing,” “what are you writing”

It’s okay. It’s okay to watch. Or dance in your own space. Uninterrupted.

Am I writing to look busy or am I writing to let it bleed? Will you judge me?

You are miles away laying listless in your bed warm and dreaming, into brighter colors and sounds as I am sinking.

Fur coats, top hats, bedsheets, swings and trampolines.

We’ve landed on Mars.

***

Around 6am Saturday Morning

Kosta and I moved into a swing. Until about 8am we laid, frozen and intertwined on that swing which rocked to the tune of his tranquil heartbeat.

Back and forth, until the sun arose over a spray painted train-car in the distance.

Someone’s makin’ bacon for everyone. Or perhaps just shouting about it.

*

We set up camp in a perfect upper nook of the grounds and briefly passed out, only to be awakened by the dripping sun around 9am. A fruit cup for breakfast and a face wash later, I am ready to absorb the day in my pink dress and fuzzy boots.

*

Overheard around camp on Saturday…

DJ’s WAKE UP!!!!!! (Somewhere around 9:30am)

Once you get past the initial ‘everyone’s hugging,’ it’s beautiful.

Random chick to me: Let me take a picture of you.

Me: …Okay.

Random chick: With your camera. I don’t have one.

Me: [Sour facial expression]

Random chick: DON’T erase this

“…Just waitin’ for the drugs to kick in!”

“Be excellent to each other.”

Kosta & I: Hey, how’s it goin’?

Kid (We dubbed this one ‘Candy Flip Jim’): I’m tripping BALLS, dude! I’m on ecstasy and acid and I’m tripping BALLLLLLLS!

(Later) Candy Flip Jim’s friend: Dude, your mom is looking for you.

*

Saturday night. Our last night here. Everything I see is captivating; love in action, strangers dancing. I want to suck this moment up and stuff it into a bottle. I want to take it home and inhale it at my lowest. I want to feel the warmth of this bonfire when I am desolate and cold. I want to feed off of the electric energy when I am starving for love. I want to live this every day. But I can’t… and I’m scared how it will or will not bleed into my daily life. I will let the last events of this evening remain as images burned into my memory as there are some aspects of this experience that need to be kept sacred.

*

Sunday’s Horoscope:

Plant the seed today. Enjoy it’s blossoming by month’s end. Take this day to review where you’ve been so far. It’s only the beginning.

*

By 5pm everything was deconstructed. Our car was packed, tents rolled away, the music had dissipated, and Decom is now just a tear that hangs inside of my soul. This is a place I will remember when I’m old, and know that the world was beautiful. In sum, what does this experience mean to me and how can I apply those principles to my life?

For the first time in a long while, I took a look at myself and accepted the reflection.

I soared through a galaxy of love.

The windy air, the bass lines, the waves of energy that circulated through the camp all weekend resonates in my bones like a haunting melody. It leaves my mouth with a taste I cannot articulate through words.

I left Los Angeles Friday the 17 expecting to purge my soul and lose my mind in the desert. But the universe rotates full circle my dear; and in turn, I found it.

Yeah you, the sprayer. I don’t know what it is with some of you women, but for chrissakes, if you are going to do the ol’ hover move in a public restroom, you either:

1. Better have that maneuver LOCKED down – you aren’t hosing down the effing patio

or

2. WIPE.IT.UP. News Flash: Toilet paper exists!

For some reason, some ladies assume that just cause they’re at the ghetto movie theatre, Dodger Stadium, — whichever somewhat classless establishment — that they can spray their whiz all over the toilet seat (by avoiding actually sitting on it), and pass it on for the next person. Are you afraid of catching the HIV? Betch, VD exists because of you!

In this case, it’s the inconsiderate she-beast who works on the 9th Floor of 4929 Wilshire. Fuck that! You are RUINING the 1.5 minutes of solitude that I cherish every damn time I take a seat on that fucker. Really, there are many other things that I prefer to worry about in that short time span – one NOT being the fact that your sticky DNA is now stamped all over my ass until I have to subject my hand/wrist to wiping it off.

Ladies do everyone a favor and look out for the next girl.

Wax on, wax off.

Common courtesy is much too hard to come by these days. Normally I wouldn’t go as far as posting an entire blog about this; but in doing so I really hope that it enlightens some of the more ignorant people (AHEM, MALE SPECIES) in our society.

You know, I understand why my friends get uneasy around me in social situations. I can be very confrontational when under the influence of alcohol (what do you expect out of an Irish-Italian Leo), but extremely passive aggressive otherwise (with a stronger lean towards the latter). There is a very fine line drawn between the two, but tonight I wasn’t takin’ no crap from nobody (read: DeNiro in Taxi Driver). By the time I left work it was nearly 8pm and to put me in a kitchen at that point would have been just about as useless as a whore in a monastery. After getting worked up in traffic during the ride home, followed by an absurd parking lot debacle, I just wanted to pick up my Thai takeout and sit the fuck down on my couch. As I walked into Win’s I noticed a rather portly man walking towards the door in a sweatsuit jumbling his phone and bag o’ thai, so I held the door open for him. Note that there was surely PLENTY of time for me to open the door for myself, enter the restaurant, let the door close, while still giving Sweatsuit Fatty room to advance a few more steps towards the door and open it for HIMSELF. Instead, I kept my feet firmly in place and held that fucker wide open until the man made his exit. And an exit it was.

No “thank you,” no smile, no eye contact, no nod, no glance at my cleave – NOTHING that even hinted at the acknowledgment of my existence. Awoken the sleeping dragon, you have.

Me: [As smug as humanly possible, with a hip-check into his plastic bag of food] “You’re WELCOME, KIND SIR!!!”

Tubby Bitch: “Oh REALLY!!!” [In a baby voice] “Tank you! I should say TANK YOU!!!!!”

I blocked out all sound of his baby voices that continued after I let the door close behind me. I kept walking toward the register, middle finger displayed high in the air. I gave it to him as hard as I could, and I knew that he saw it.

What I should have done was asked him IN WHAT CRUEL WORLD does he let a girl HALF his size and AGE hold a fucking door open for him without saying “HEY THANKS”?? I should have ripped his slutbag mother a new one for bringing up such a fine piece of work.

What I should have said was, ”I’m sorry Mr. Manners, that you’re sooo completely enthralled with your phone conversation and ravenous appetite that you cannot take the time to show some fucking DECENCY towards a woman who went ABOVE AND BEYOND to display a smidge of common courtesy that most people seriously lack these days. MY BAD.”

 Overworked and underpaid, the story of my entire fucking existence. Damn the man.

In most aspects of my life, I am not easy to please. I am a tough crowd when it comes to jokes, music, food and the way I like my bloody marys. However, when it comes to movies, that is not the case. I reserve the right to consider my taste credible, but I don’t (care to) know a damn thing about cinematography or the history of motion pictures. I’m a simple girl – give me a few laughs, perhaps a tear or two, and I’ll consider my $13.50 at the box office well spent. That said, my friends of the male species and I will perpetually butt heads on what we each consider a decent film. Guy Ritchie’s latest, ROCKNROLLA, was no exception to that. Sigh, Mars and Venus.

Immediately after the movie ended, I shot over the “Sooooo, what did you think?” side-glance at my friend Ryan, which was greeted by a facial expression similiar to one he would have displayed if he had just smelled some dog shit. “Here we go…” I thought to myself. We exited the theatre and as kismet would have it, ran head on into The Brothers (Jeff and Lenny of BehindTheHype). After we had all shared a circle jerk of personal thoughts and disbeliefs about Ritchie’s (the UK’s Tarantino) ROCKNROLLA, the majority seemed to be swaying towards a more negative opinion. I found myself the lone minority, and Ryan insisted that I elaborate on my POV during our walk to the car. Although I didn’t have a solid list of reasons as to why it was a great movie, I had a solid list of reasons as to why I thought it was a great movie.

Going into it, I knew that ROCKNROLLA wasn’t going to be another Snatch. How could it be, with the absence of Brad Pitt as a freewheelin’ gypsy? Similar to that of Pulp Fiction, Snatch isn’t capable of being outdone. However, each performance of the ENTIRE cast of this film was nothing less than stellar, and Ritchie’s very thorough character development from beginning to end was both entertaining and fulfilling. Although more effectively displayed in Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Ritchie has a superb and succinct way of taking the audience through a journey alongside his characters and their idiosyncrasies — a sleek slink (The ROCKNROLLA himself), a signature pose (Stella/Thandie Newton), etcetera.  I also enjoy the way the movie structure flowed, sucking you in when establishing the supporting roles (“The Wild Bunch“), and brings the storyline back full circle about 50 minutes into the film. This may be a direct rip-off from another filmmaker, but again, I am easy to please, so it works for me. Not to mention I find it much less abrasive than the Tarantino-esque back-asswards style of movie making.

Also noteworthy is the quick dialogue always evident in a Guy Ritchie film. The dialogue in ROCKNROLLA may not be up to par with that of his previous films, but I’ll be damned if that British humor and them “BOLLOCKS!” and “Bob’s your Uncle” outbursts don’t have me in stitches the whole way through. Also- you may notice that the elusive painting featured in the film encapsulates an unspoken sacred mystique which can easily be paralleled to Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase in Pulp Fiction.

Lastly, I stand strong in defense of my opinion because of the way the soundtrack carried my enthusiasm from beginning to end. Ritchie’s taste in music is impeccable, with dashes of Lou Reed, The Sonics and Wanda Jackson — obvious throwback references to 50s and 60s pop. These classics are mixed in with modern tracks by the likes of The Hives, not to mention a live club performance by The Subways. Being painted against the backdrop of the gritty, crime-filled streets of London, Ritchie showcases these songs while being paired with their scenes (a car chase, an execution, etc) like a fine wine and delectable imported cheese. This is more beautifully portrayed in one of the most proverbial scenes in the movie. Picture the infamous ROCKNROLLA, aka Johnny Quid, swaying in front of a smoky mirror to The Clash’s “Bankrobber.” Up until this point, Quid is ruthless, lowest-of-the-low junkee scum, a scathing individual that is wanted by the mob (led by his step-father, Tom Wilkinson’s Lenny). Quid eerily sings to himself,

“…Daddy was a bankrobber

But he never hurt nobody

He just loved to live that way

And he loved to steal your money…”

It’s a wonder if Ritchie wasn’t solely inspired by those 4 lines when developing the entire concept behind this film. Flash back to an adolescent Quid in his bedroom, swaying and singing to the same song in front of a mirror. Without giving too much away, young Johnny Quid’s ebb is shattered upon Lenny’s entrance, who beats him down mentally and physically, providing for a detailed background of the ROCKNROLLA’s adult persona. At this point, a pivotal reversal of roles occurs as Quid metaphorically switches from the film’s antagonist to protagonist. It is from this point on that Toby Kebbell (as Johnny Quid) steals the show (and my empathetic heart).

I walked into this movie expecting perhaps an adrenaline rush and a few chuckles, but by film’s end I was left with many more unexpected triggered emotions. Although comparetively; yes, the film did fall  short, a well-done ending set the stage for the second installment (THE REAL ROCKNROLLA) of the supposed trilogy.

It may just be the vagina in me talking, but without having to invest in a bottle of wine and some imported cheese, that seems like $13.50 well spent to me. Take it or leave it.

To read Lenny’s article on RocknRolla, click here.

My daily trip to 7-11 was greeted with a pleasant surprise as I approached the DIY coffee kiosk this morning.

Not only are they now offering their seasonal Spiced Pumpkin Latte (my favorite, for it’s oh-so bold and pumpkin-y flavor), but I was faced with another bold decision to make.

Well I’ve got news for you. I’m no asshat, so the choice was simple.

I just love the smell of pumpkin and Obama in the morning. I also love the smell of freedom — the freedom of choice (you know, like abortion and tying the knot with a gal).

Propaganda aside, I still don’t know if I’m going to vote for this election. I’m a realist, and I understand the unspoken limitations that halt American citizens from having a true “voice” in this country. However, I will do my part by purchasing one of these little blue gems every day. And by “do my part,” I mean flashing that sexy little cup in the faces of blind Right-Wingers around Los Angeles like I’m (a female, more chipper) Malcolm fucking X.

Kings Of Leon: Only By The Night

Release Date: September 23, 2008

Every once in a blue moon, an album gets under my skin so bad that it engulfs my bloodstream. I want to breathe it. I want to drink it. I want to fuck its brains out, while it plays in the background. Twice.

I guess a great album is kind of like a good romance, it falls in your lap when you aren’t searching for it. This rings exceptionally true with southern rock boys, Kings of Leon, and their fourth full-length release, Only By The Night.

Truthfully, I despised the first (and in turn, the last) thing I heard from Kings of Leon, that damn “Molly’s Chambers” hullabaloo circa 2003. I hated it so much that I didn’t give the rest of their catalog a chance, so naturally I wanted to kick myself when I found myself nodding to their newest single, “Sex On Fire” every time I heard it on the radio. It grabbed me by the jugular and made me want to believe what vocalist Caleb Followill was crooning, something eerily similar to the Bono effect. His voice haunted me, and when the album appeared in a care package from a friend, I considered it fate. I popped in Only By The Night for the ride home, and the first track, “Closer,” had me instantly at hello. How could it not, with lyrical content pertaining to the life of a vampire! Sex-ay.

Sonically it’s Stones meets Afghan Wigs with a dash of Zeppelin, showcasing equal parts melodic and forceful — but never contrived. Only By The Night floats its listener through a space-rock odyssey, reminiscent of a good high without the edgy comedown. My favorite track, Revelry, tugs at the heartstrings, encasing so much painstaking emotion that it resonates like a bad dream. Lyrics such as “I get lost in the light/So high don’t wanna come down/ To face the loss of the good thing that I have found” hint at both addiction and the loss of a love, both two topics that seem more familiar to the masses these days than they do foreign.

A velvety smooth album from start to finish highlighted with fuzzy guitars and rich vocals, I just want to reminisce on good (and bad) times past with a bottle of wine and a pack of smokes while basking in the light of revelry.

Kings Of Leon: Listen Closely

Continuing the theme, I’d like to think that my vagina makes for interesting conversation. And the fact that my little ol’ hot pocket always seems to find itself in some amazingly awkward situation or another, well, it kinda makes me believe that I’m sitting on a Super Hero with magestic powers. (Or, if you are one of my exes, a Super Villain.) Behold my most recent vagina adventurequest…

What kind of misadventure will my Super Hot Pocket find itself in next? Stay tuned!

My first post. Nice and controversial. Hey, I’m Casey Cupcakes. And if this blog doesn’t lay it out plain and simple, well…

And I also enjoy being a bleeding-heart liberal, 20-something female living in California.

…Which brings me to my next point. Because of the fact that all Planned Parenthood locations are notorious for long waits, I avoided even a mere attempt at making an appointment for my latest, erm, health scare, and jumped right into mass texting every liberal chick in my phonebook, because surely, one of those hookers would have the answer to my prayers. Why? Because Planned Parenthood is so ON THEIR SHIT, they send everyone home with a lifetime supply of condoms and birth control packets after each visit, just to be “sure.” To my relief, they also dole out extra servings of the Plan B pill like a side of steaming mashed potatoes, whether you ask for it or not…. which means that shit is available on the slutty black market 24/7.

…Which brings me to my next point. Thank you, state of California, for allowing Planned Parenthood (and local drugstores, if you want to spend $45) to dole out extra boxes of the Plan B pill like a side of steaming mashed potatoes. A glorious, steaming side of potatoes that will magically remove any and all traces of satan spawn clinging for life on the inside of my irresponsible (albeit a smidge tipsy) and wretched uterus. All in a day’s work.

And lastly, thank you dear Planned Parenthood, for thanklessly looking out for the futures of hussies everywhere, and for reminding me that even though I spread my legs, I don’t have to lift a finger.