Gurl Crushes

1. Stacey Mark

I have a total girl crush on the NYC photographer Stacey Mark, which you may have already gathered from my frequent use of her photographs in recent posts. What I love about Stacey’s images is that they’re incredibly sexy, but at the same time remain so subtle and pure and feminine. They’re like photos from a 70s issue of Playboy, except dreamier and more cinematic. And she makes girls with all sorts of body types look fucking amazing! And Stacey is cool in person too: she has a really monotone, Daria-style voice, super long brown hair, and has mastered the comfy-chic tomboy thing that Charlotte Gainsbourg and Juliette Lewis do so well and I always wish I could do better. Sometimes Stacey and I hang out and chain smoke and talk about how stupid boys are, and the whole scene makes me feel like I’m the star of an alt teen movie in 1997.

Stacey shoots for mags like Purple, Oyster, Vice, Self Service, and Jacques. She actually took some pics of me for Purple, some of which you can see below, and we also made a video together.


2. Girl Crisis

If you’re hungover or on a comedown, or if you’re going through a breakup or your cat just died or if you failed a test, or if you’re just casually feeling suicidal, don’t worry, I have the perfect thing to cheer you up! Girl Crisis is an all-girl, indie supergroup from New York who perform covers of famous songs in alt living rooms and film it with a Super 8 camera. In the past they’ve covered artists like Nirvana, Leonard Cohen and (yes!) Ace of Base. I swear, these Girl Crisis videos are a saving grace whenever I’m feeling blue. They perfectly satisfy that whole nostalgic, teenage, Virgin Suicides, oh-it’s-so-hard-being-a-girl thing that sometimes you just need to give in and indulge, especially if you’re having a particularly angsty period week. Girls in the band include members of Chairlift, Au Revoir Simone, Class Actress and Apache Beat. Wistful sigh…

excerpt from my not-at-all finished novel

Photo by Stacey Mark

“Just answer the question,” said Caleb, sounding increasingly annoyed.

“I can’t,” I shrugged. “It’s too broad.”

“Come on, just think about it for one second. You’re not even trying. How do you define good sex?” Caleb was lying naked at the end of the bed, flipping mindlessly through a magazine, doing his weird vibrating thing. It had been four months since we’d started dating, and by this point he was practically living at the squat. We were ‘playing house’, I suppose, but it was pretty clear that the relationship had an expiration date. Sure, he was beautiful–he had some of the most remarkable facial features I’d ever seen–but he was beginning to bore me. I’d already started sleeping with other boys. None of them let me tie them up, but I figured once I found one who did, he could be Caleb’s replacement. Unfortunately, the casting process was proving more difficult than I anticipated. But I didn’t want to break it off with Caleb just yet because… well, I don’t really like being alone, because being alone forces you to think about, you know, stuff, which is something I generally try to avoid.

“Well, there’s lots of types of sex that I would consider ‘good’,” I said. “There are too many variables. There’s no one answer. Your question is flawed.”

“OK, what about this,” he pressed: “Do you think sex is better if you really care about the person you’re sleeping with?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I knew you’d say that,” he moaned, flipping a glossy page.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a phony,” he said, suddenly angry. “You’re always on my case about having ‘no emotions,’ telling me I’m a fucking robot, but look who’s fucking talking. You’re the least romantic person I know. You say a lot of extreme pseudo-romantic bullshit but you don’t mean any of it. You can barely even bring yourself to kiss me when we fuck, you just like to play all those weird… games.”

“Where is this coming from?” I asked. “Is this just because I said you don’t need to be in love to have good sex? Who are you, my mom?”

“Very funny…” He was wrestling with a T-shirt, struggling to pull it over his head. His skin nearly matched the white cotton. 

“I was in love with my ex-boyfriend and we had shitty sex,” I said. “It didn’t matter; that wasn’t what it was about. Sex and love are different things–everybody who knows anything knows that.”

“I suppose that’s what you tell yourself to justify all the cheating.”

“Just because I’m in love with someone doesn’t mean I don’t still want to be fucked in back alleys by Mexican bus boys.”

“Actually, I take it back,” he said flatly, “you’re extremely romantic.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

Wow, I thought while lazily touching myself under the duvet, our first fight. That’s, like, a milestone or whatever. I have to admit, I was sort of excited at the idea that mine and Caleb’s relationship had escalated to the point where we could insult each other in this way. Maybe he IS the one for me…

“All you ever talk about is how I’m your ‘type,’” he said, interrupting my daydreams, “or about how I fit into whatever warped vision you’ve created of the ‘perfect boy.’ Well, what if I don’t want to be reduced to just some person who happens to tick all of your hypothetical boxes?”

“That’s what being in love is, you moron. Get a clue.” I am joking?, I thought. I couldn’t tell.

“I’m your fucking accessory!” he shouted in a voice louder than I knew he was capable of. “Your sidekick, your freak. That’s your shtick, isn’t it?: the girl with the messed-up boyfriend. You need me, because without me you’re boring.” He paused and rubbed his bony nose. “Or at least you think you are, anyway.”

“That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Oh god, stop being so dramatic.”

“Look,” I said, “you have an unrealistic view of love because you’ve never experienced it. Love sucks. It makes you feel nauseous. You can’t get anything done because you constantly feel like you’re about to throw up. It’s not fun, trust me. True love destroys you. Everything else is just a vacation.”

“You use sex as a weapon, you fucking sadist,” he shouted. His eyes were becoming puddles. “All that stuff you told me about wanting to cut me open and live inside my ribcage, about wanting to breathe for me–that was all bullshit. You’re just a bored, pontificating cunt who’s in love with the sound of her own voice.”

“I liked you better when you were a blank piece of paper.”

This Week in Pictures

Hey! So I realize I have not been posting as often as usual this past month or so. I suppose I have been “busy”, although I hate it when people say that, it’s so obnoxious. Anyway, to update you, I was recently in LA and Mexico shooting a short film for UK Channel 4, and you can see some photos from the trip below. I don’t want to give too much of the storyline away as of yet, but I will say that at one point I kissed a 9 year old in a Mexican strip club (#casual). I will post the film later this summer. I also went on tour with Blood Orange for a week, on his American tour supporting Florence and the Machine. I imagined being on tour would be very “cool” and “rock n’ roll”, however it actually just involves sitting in a car for millions of hours at a time, listening to talk radio with guys who haven’t showered in weeks, and eating food out of foil bags from truck stops. Unglamorous. Although we did go to a strip club in Vegas, which I suppose made it all worth it. Some pics from the trip are posted below too. I’m also making a tour diary video which I will post once I get around to editing it. Editing it hard for me because my laptop is vintage and can’t even handle opening Microsoft Word without flashing up that nightmarish rainbow pinwheel from hell for at least three minutes. I wish I was rich. I know people say that money can’t buy you happiness, but I feel like surely it at least removes the sadness that comes from not having it. Right? I wouldn’t know.

I hate everything. My phone can’t go on the internet.

Here are some photos of my life, carefully curated to make it seem more exciting and carefree than it actually is.

Fucking My Intern

Photo by Bella Howard

I fucked another one of my interns. No wonder I can’t keep them around for very long. It’s awkward to ask someone to organize your external hard drive after you’ve had their genitals in your mouth. That’s just a fact.

If you remember, a few years back I had that goofy teenage boy intern, Stan, who I met at my local supermarket and who ended up briefly moving into the squat I lived in in London. When we met he was living in a depressing, one-bedroom council flat with his grandmother, and I said he could crash with us on account that he did random things for me for free whenever I asked him to–update my blog when I was too drunk to type, organize my underwear drawer, act as my human foot stool, insert my tampons, etc. It was cool for a while, but then I ended up half sleeping with him–or more like quarter sleeping with him, really (I never properly finished anything back then as I was always on so much ketamine)–and then everything went to shit. But then even after he stopped working for me I never kicked him out, because I’m too nice, and so he just stayed around and went on to sleep with practically everyone else we lived with, both male and female. The dirty little whore. (Keep in mind that there were twelve us of living there and we didn’t have a shower.) So he essentially became our squat’s personal, teenage sex slave. But whatever, that’s another story. And one I’ve already told.

My new intern has been working for me for about a month. She recently graduated from NYU, after which she emailed me saying that she would love to help me out in any way possible, noting that she was looking for a fun way to fill her free time before attending grad school at Harvard. At first I rejected her, as she is obviously under qualified for the job. However after she begged me (and showed up for our first meeting covered in bruises left by a fuck-buddy who likes to bite her), I gave in and said OK. 

The intern is an extremely upbeat, busty 22 year old with the sort of long beachy hair and bright white American smile that make it painfully obvious she grew up in California. She talks really loud and fast, most of the time about her future goal to create a cosmetics line free of unsafe ingredients, that doesn’t test on animals, and that contains some sort of nut butter that will benefit the economy of various poor areas of Africa. Or something. Sometimes when she’s talking I think, “Wow, she’s such a good person, I wish I cared more about Africa or whatever.” But then like five seconds later she’ll start rambling about how she recently puked on someone at a rave and I’ll think, “Actually never mind, you’re just as disgusting as everyone else.”

I like her a lot and we’ve become good friends, but to be honest she doesn’t even do that much work for me because since she only graduated a month or so ago she’s always too busy partying to care about transcribing my stupid interviews. Normally our text convos go something like this: “Hey Intern, I have an interview with an adult baby for you to transcribe,” and then four hours later she’ll say, “Sure, no problem! I have plans for the next eight straight days but I can totally do it afterward,” after which I just give up and do it myself. But then last week when I texted her “Hey Intern, your assignment for this week is to help me fuck my boyfriend,” she immediately replied “OMG sounds AMAZING! When? I’m totally availz whenever!” to which I responded “You’re an insane whore,” followed by, “No offense! That’s why I hired you, duh!” to which she replied, “OMG obvs NBD!”

The threesome was a going away present for my boyfriend who just a few days ago moved away to Boston for the entire summer to study some complicated science stuff at Harvard. (Apparently Harvard is “in” right now.) So now I’m sad and alone at my apartment staring at my air-conditioner, feeling depressed about the fact that I’ve literally already watched every (good) porn movie on the internet multiple times over. No but seriously, I’ve been feeling sort of like a desperate, dependent loser these past few days. When did I become this person? Like I keep going through the same thought loop over and over where I’m like, “Oh my god I’m so lonely, this summer is going to suck,” to then later thinking, “Hold on, I’m a powerful, independent woman who doesn’t rely on anyone or anything, I haven’t even thought about my boyfriend in hours!” and then looking at the clock and realizing it actually hasn’t been hours at all, it’s only been twenty minutes and I was napping during the entirety of it. Tragic.

But anyway, those are my feelings. I feel a lot better now that I’ve put them out there for a bunch of internet strangers to read. Feel free to vomit your feelings into the comment box below if you feel so inclined.


I wrote this essay about roommates for the current issue of the beautiful interiors magazine, Apartamento. The photos are of me in mi apartamento, taken by Sandy Kim.

When I moved to New York in the summer of 2010 I didn’t have any friends. I couldn’t afford my own apartment, so I made the novice mistake of moving in with a random stranger I met on Craigslist. You hear horror stories about Craigslist roommates–OCD, junkies, money scammers, rapists–but still, I thought, How bad could it be?

Mike was in his mid thirties with a big beer belly, permanent armpit stains, and the general attitude and appearance of a someone who hasn’t gotten a blow-job in over a decade. He would burp and fart so loud that it would wake me from my sleep almost every night. To add to his cliched ‘bad roommate’ persona, he was a hoarder. Every available space of the apartment was crammed with dusty knickknacks, books with titles like Why We Get Fat, light-up Santa Clause statues that no longer lit up–the list goes on. The weirdest thing, though, was that for the most part Mike refused to speak to me, instead choosing to communicate solely through passive aggressive notes he would write in washable marker on the bathroom mirror. Things like, “DID SOMEONE USE MY COMB!?” (And by “someone” I assume he meant me, as we were the only two people living in the house.) I became so terrified of the awkwardness of running into him in the hallway that if I knew he was home, instead of going to the bathroom, I would pee into a plastic cup and throw it out the window. I only ever saw him clean once; I came home late one night to find him on all fours, manically scrubbed the bathtub with bleach. I was convinced he’d killed someone.

That apartment only cost me $420 a month–that’s pretty insane, even for Bushwick–but still, it wasn’t worth it. I needed to get out. So when my friend Amelia split up with her girlfriend and offered to let me live in a section of her living room for a small portion of the rent, I gladly accepted. Sure, I wouldn’t have a “real” room, and instead of actual walls my living space would be defined by sheets slung over a makeshift clothes rail, but still, it would be better than peeing out the window.

It’s a unique form of intimacy that arises, living so closely with someone like we do. In New York, unless you’re loaded, you generally have to resign to living in a glorified shoebox. Having a roommate becomes like being in a relationship, except without the fucking.

Because of the open-plan layout of our house, there is essentially zero privacy. When I’m in my bed and Amelia is in hers, we can hear each other breathing. We hear every phone call the other makes–the lies we tell our moms, the excuses we make to our bosses. When Amelia has sex, I can literally hear the sound of her fingers entering her lover’s vagina. Last night, I heard the girl in her bed whisper, “You fuck me better than my husband.” I miss nothing. And Amelia, in turn, has been witness to the many times I’ve screamed and cried and came and puked. We split the price of toilet paper, we pull clumps of each other’s hair out of the drain, we make salads, we share boxes of tampons. Once, when the guy I was sleeping with refused to go down on me (he claimed that my vagina at the time tasted “potent” and that the smell of my cunt “put him off”), Amelia offered to lick my fingers after they’d been inside me to judge how mine compared to the plethora of vaginas she’d previously sampled. “How thoughtful!,” I replied. Really, what more could you ask of a roommate than that?

Pee Comix and Such

Here’s the latest comic strip made for me by my pee slave, Brad. Brad makes me one of these lovely little drawings every time we meet up for a golden shower session. Seriously, the guy loves drinking my pee so much, he can never seem to get enough of the stuff. (Except maybe for that one time where he literally puked back up my urine in front of me– apparently that time he had a little too much.)

I’ve recently been feeling tempted to taste my pee myself, to see what all the fuss is about, as according to Brad it tastes so good I could “bottle it and sell it for gold.” I asked my boyfriend to taste it the other day too, but he just said “Eww no” and then told me to leave his apartment. After I promised not to pee on him he said I could stay, but then later when I asked him if he wanted to experiment with my new horsetail butt-plug (#PonyPlay) he made a disgusted face and then told me to leave again.

How could anyone not find this hot?!

Finally I gave up and asked him if he would just have normal, non-pee, non-horsetail sex with me, and he said “Only if you help me take down the trash.” I agreed and then we had sex and it was really great. The end.

On to the comic!

Portrait of a Generation at THE HOLE


Hey guys! I’m part of a group show that’s opening tomorrow at The Hole gallery in NYC. The show is called “Portrait of a Generation”. Over 100 artists who make up the art scene here have made portraits of each other, intended to serve as a kind of yearbook for New York City in 2012. I did a portrait of Matthew Stone, and he did one of me. All the artists in the show are listed below. Some of my faves are in that list! So exciting! Come to the opening if you are around. FB invite HERE.

June 7 – August 10, 2012

OPENING June 7, 6-9PM

Aaron Rose
Adam Tullie
Adam Schleimer
Alex Prager
Alexey Sizov
Alison Blickle
Allison Schulnik
Anders Oinonen
Andrea Sonnenberg
Andre Saravia
Andrew Jeffrey Wright
Andrew Kuo
Angeline Rivas
Ari Marcoplolous
Ashley Macomber
Aurel Schmidt
Assume Vivid Astro Focus
Barry McGee
Bec Stupac
Ben Brock
Ben Jones
Bijoux Altimirano
Bill Powers
Billy Grant
Body By Body
Brian Belott
Brian Degraw
Brian Kenney
Brain McPeck
Bruce High Quality
Bruce Labruce
Cass Bird
Caroline Snow
Casey Spooner
Chelsea Seltzer
Cheryl Dunn
Chris Johanson
Christian Rosa
Clare Rojas
Clayton Patterson
Cody Critcheloe
Colette Robbins
Cynthia Rowley
Dash Snow
Donald Baechler
Donald Cummings
Dustin Yellin
Eddie Martinez
Enno Tianen
Eric Cahan
Erik Foss
Eric Yahnker
Evan Gruzis
Fab Five Freddy
Francesca Gavin
Glenn O’Brien
Gordon Hull
Grant Worth
Hisham Bharoocha
Holton Rower
IO Tillet Wright
Isaac Lin
Jack Donoghue
Jack Pierson
Jaimie Warren
Jane Moseley
JD Samson
Jeanette Hayes
Jeff Ladouceur
Jeff Vespa
Jeremy Kost
Jesse Edwards
Jesse Geller
Jiannis Varelas
Jim Drain
Jo Jackson
Joe Bradley
Joe Grillo
Joe Rushe
Joey Frank
John Holland
Jonah Freedman
Jorge Ulrich
Josh Lazcano
Justin Lowe
Kadar Brock
Karley Sciortino
Kathy Grayson
Keegan McHargue
Kembra Pfahler
Kenny Scharf
Kevin Baker
Kris Kahler
Kristy Leibowitz
Kunle Martins
Lance De Los Reyes
Lele Savieri
Leo Fitzpatrick
Levi Tate
Libby Black
Lizzi Bougatsos
Lola Schnabel
Malcolm Stuart
Marc Bell
Maria Robledo
Mark Cross
Matt Jones
Matt Leines
Matt Stone
Matthew Craven
Matthew Stone
Max Snow
McDermott & McGough
Micah Ganske
Mike Namer
Miz Metro
N Dash
Naomi Fisher
Olivier Zahm
Parker Ito
Peter Sutherland
Rachel Chandler
Raymond Pettibon
Renee Ricard
Robert Lazzarini
Ry Fyan
Ryan McGinley
Sam Moyer
Sandy Kim
Scott Ewalt
Scott Hug
Scott Reeder
Seana Gavin
Sharon Needles
Slater Bradley
Slava Mogutin
Spencer Sweeney
Stefan Bondell
Steve Powers
Sue Webster
Susy Oliveira
Taylor McKimens
Terence Koh
Theo Rosenblum
Tim Biskup
Tim Hull
Tim Noble
Tjorg Douglas Beer
Todd James
Vanessa Prager
Wes Lang
Yamataka Eye
Yoko Ono

And while I have your attention, I’d also like to say that I’m reading a short story at this event on Friday night at the People’s Improv Theater in NYC. I’ve never read anything out loud before in my entire life forever, so come watch this once in a lifetime milestone. FB invite HERE.

And while I have your attention again, I’m also having a post-milestone DJ set at a pop-up restaurant/bar/art gallery/trendy Williamsburg relevant happening event space on Friday night. I’ll be “DJing” with my friend Adri Murguia. FB invite HERE.

“The cool thing about being famous is traveling. I have always wanted to travel across seas, like to Canada and stuff.” -Britney Spears

Hands On

Drawings by Kate Merry

For the latest issue of Twin magazine I wrote an essay based on a new book about masturbation titled With the Hand. To be honest the books isn’t that great, so I don’t recommend you run out and buy it. Instead just read my article, which is essentially just me rambling about touching myself.

With the Hand: A History of Masturbation is a new book by the Dutch urologist and sexologist, Mels Van Driel. The book explores subject of masturbation, looking at its place in history, religion, art, culture and beyond. The gist of the book is that masturbation is one of the last taboos, which is silly since practically everyone does it, and in order to create a more sex positive society we need to abandon the shame-fest and start embracing our love of self-love. So basically, according to Van Driel, we need to stop associating masturbation with feelings of embarrassment, guilt and loneliness, and start having conversations about fingering ourselves at dinner parties.

I frequently write about masturbation, porn and fantasy on this blog (despite my mom’s constant instance that doing so will prevent be from ever getting a “real job”). At this point, it’s no secret that penetrative sex on its own doesn’t feel that good (AKA good at all) for most girls, so masturbation (both on its own and with a partner) is key, because for lots of us it’s the only way we’re actually going to cum. So naturally I agree with Van Driel when he says that masturbation is, you know, “important.” In the book’s introduction he writes, “Perhaps I might be able to put paid to the taboo on masturbation. Or at least put paid to all kinds of nonsense about masturbation.” In light of this, I’ve chosen four topics from With the Hand that specifically interest me, elaborated on them a bit, and also shared some of my own jerk-off stories. Enjoy!


When speaking about pornography, Van Driel says, “It is almost inevitable that the free availability of sexually explicit material will have a marked impact on the sexual morals of the growing internet generation.” He then goes on to talk about the research of Jochen Peter, who studies the effects of internet porn on young people through the University of Amsterdam. Peter says “…those who watch internet porn are less secure and less content with their sex lives,” adding “those who make frequent use of porn are more inclined to see women as sex objects.” Though I believe both of those things to be easily plausible, I’m going to play devil’s advocate and tell you a reason why porn made my sex life (and just my life in general) way better.

When I was a teenager I hated my body. Nothing new there. I had curves before everyone else had curves, and my big hips and butt and boobs made me feel gigantic and un-cute in halter dresses. I spent most of my 8th grade end-of-year pool party crying in the bathroom, and the majority of my first few years of sexual exploration was done with the light off. Then I started watching internet porn. I soon realized that the girls I most enjoyed watching get fucked were not skinny girls. I was way more turned on watching girls with big hips and butts and boobs, because all the bouncing and jiggling made everything more sexy and exciting. So essentially my teenage internet porn addiction helped me develop sexual confidence and a better body image. (P.S. It also taught me lots of other valuable life lessons, like how to deep-throat and never to get a lower back tattoo, but that’s another story.)


In one section of the book, Van Driel talks about 36 year old man from Sweden who was arrested for masturbating onto women’s bike saddles. His conclusion: “men masturbate in the oddest places.” Well, that’s true, but so do girls. Why is he leaving us out? We masturbate in weird places too! It’s actually easier for girls to guerrilla masturbate because when we do it there’s no mess afterward, so we can be really sly about it. We do it under our coats on long car rides. We do it in public restrooms like homeless people while you’re waiting outside, thinking that we’re just peeing. Sometimes we even do it lying in bed next to you, with the blanket draped loosely over our knees and abdomen, and you don’t have any idea. Get a clue!


According to Van Driel, “A celebrated sexologist once claimed in an interview that not only did between 90 and 100 percent of adolescent boys masturbate, but that there was also widespread mutual exploration and horseplay, with a marked competitive element: who’s got the biggest one, who can shoot first and furthest?” He then goes on to tell a story about a colleague who played the infamous ‘soggy biscuit’ game as an teenager, where everyone jerks-off onto a biscuit and the last one to cum has to eat it. Hot. However, the book doesn’t talk much about teenage girls circle-jerking, so I thought I’d take this opportunity to share my story with you.

When I was about thirteen my five best girlfriends I used to refer to fingering ourselves as “M&M”. The code word meant we could talk about it around boys, or in the hallways between classes, and no one would have any idea. (“Oh my god I ate M&Ms for two hours last night while watching Titanic,” etc.) Then on the weekends, at our regular sleepovers, all five of us would get into our respective sleeping bags, turn the lights off, put on a CD (‘N SYNC featured heavily), and all masturbate simultaneously. Afterward we would sit around and talk about who we were thinking about–whether it was Chris from science class or Jonathan Taylor Thomas or whoever. Particular fantasies were rarely discussed; the specific person seemed more important to us at the time. I’m don’t remember how exactly the ritual began, but we did it as many as 15 or 20 times. It never seemed weird or like a big deal at the time, and having “our secret” made us feel closer. And I’ve since talked to other girls with similar stories. I like to think of it as an underground, teen girl cult, sexual initiation type thing.


In the Sex Aids chapter of With the Hand, Van Driel discusses everything from vibrators to blow up dolls to the specific pleasures that come from inserting a chicken bone into one’s butthole. Fantasy plays a smaller role in the chapter, but if you as me our imaginations are the greatest sex toys we could ever ask for. I mean, duh, in a fantasy everything is perfect; there are no disappointments, no limp dicks, no bad kissers. And fantasies can be as irrational and fucked up as you want–making out with your brother, getting sexy with a seven year old, etc–and it doesn’t matter because they are not real.

As I’ve made clear, I am in no way anti-porn. I love porn, but it can make us lazy. We watch it because it allows us to cum with minimal thought and effort (although realistically it aways takes like 20 minutes to find the video you want so the process always turns out to be more effort than you planned), when really we all have an endless catalogue of pornography in our brains. This might sound depressing, but some of the best sex of my life has been in my head. Woody Allen got it right: “Don’t knock masturbation. It’s sex with someone I love.”

Selling My Soul

So remember the other day when I said some Australian creep paid me $75 for a piece of paper with my spit and cum on it? Well here’s a photo of the letter I sent him. Blogging about this little exchange turned out to be a good idea, as it’s already inspired a few other random creeps to place orders–one from a guy who wants pictures of me in nylon tights and another from a guy who wants a video of me saying his name over and over. Ca-ching! All in a day’s work, huh? So I guess this means I’m an entrepreneur now. Kind of like Jay-Z. Cool… Get in touch with me at if you want to “do business.”

P.S. I was recently interviewed on the wonderful I Like You podcast. Check it out if you want to hear me ramble about internet slaves, squatting, and the Vice Slutever show!