Clearly I am getting a little desperate when my usual walking buddy is out of town.

walkbuddyAlso, I must quote the highlight of our walk-talk. We were on the subject of being terrible people when this gem was spoken: “Even this morning when I said I didn’t like asian pears I felt a little bit racist…” #onlyinpaloalto

This morning my alarm went off, and I started my day with the pleasant thought,

“Shut up, you rat-faced mother fucker!”

I reflected on this with some satisfaction, as my iPhone now knew I was not someone to be taking any shit, but also with a little disquiet. My word choice was a bit… harsh. And while no one can deny there’s a certain ring to “Fuck you, you fucking fuck,” I feel like there’s room for improvement.

The best insults combine creativity and intelligence into one well placed, satisfying slap in the face that resounds with a nice CRACK and brings a smile to your lips. A “fuck you” derivative is a punch in the lumpy gut, inspiring an “oompf” from the receiver, but no real pleasure for the inflictor. When you scream “fuck you!” it’s usually in the heat of the moment, and you end up having to apologize. A well crafted insult, however, shows you are still cool, calm, and collected. You have your wits about you and have done proper analysis of your foe’s short comings to deliver this individualized, crafted, gift. It’s not a bitch slap, it’s a gentleman’s, let me take off my white glove first, slap. You feel no need to recant, because you meant what you said, and anyway, no one should be disavowing a work of art like you’ve produced.

Now anyone who has made it through high school knows to whom the young acolyte should go to learn the ways of the grand master insulter: William Shakespeare. So today, I would like to pay tribute to some of my favorite insults of his, and bring inspiration to us all who aspire to better ourselves.

How vast an upgrade Shakespeare makes to insults of the dumb-fuck, fuck-tard variety:

You abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.

Coriolanus (2.1.36)

You had measured how long a fool you were upon the ground.

Cymbeline (1.2.26)

I shall cut out your tongue.

‘Tis no matter, I shall speak as much wit as thou afterwards.

Troilus and Cressida (2.1.106)

Men from children nothing differ.

Much Ado About Nothing (5.1.36)

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!


[Your] brain is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage.

As You Like It


Where we’ve left ourselves with a pitifully depleted vocabulary weak with words like schmooze and gold-digger, look at the skill he displays to cooly scorn someone’s social endeavors:

I wonder that you will still be talking. Nobody marks you.

Much Ado About Nothing (1.1.104)

More of your conversation would infect my brain.

Coriolanus (2.1.91)

[Thou art] a very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.

Measure for Measure

I will most humbly take my leave of you.

You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will not more willingly part withal.


No man’s pie is freed from his ambitious finger.

Henry VIII (1.1.94)

Such inordinate and low desires,
Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,
Such barren pleasures, rude society,
As thou art match’d withal, and grafted to!

Henry IV, part I

Methink’st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee.

All’s Well That Ends Well


And never would he deign to use words so crude as fat-ass or fugly. (Although I do think there’s something psychologically clever about fugly. It’s a soft word, but does’t it immediately evoke the image of a wrinkly pug?)

[Thou] sanguine coward, [thou] bed-presser, [thou] horseback-breaker, [thou] huge hill of flesh!

Henry IV, part I

The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.

Coriolanus (5.4.18)

Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!

Timon of Athens

Thou hast the most unsavoury similes.

Henry IV (1.2.75)

Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands.

All’s Well That Ends Well

You should be women and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.



And everyone must admire Shakespeare’s sheer creativity:

Some report a sea-maid spawn’d him; some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice.

Measure for Measure (3.2.56)

You starvelling, you eel-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s-pizzle, you stock-fish–O for breath to utter what is like thee!-you tailor’s-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck!

Henry IV, part I

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

King Lear

What, you egg! Young fry of treachery!


Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog!

Richard III


He knew how to hit someone where it hurts:

Your virginity, your old virginity is like one of our French wither’d pears: it looks ill, it eats drily.

All’s Well That Ends Well

Your virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese.

All’s Well That Ends Well

[Thou art] a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality.

All’s Well That Ends Well


I personally appreciate the short and sweet:

Thou mis-shapen dick!

Henry VI (5.5.35)


And can you imagine how much fun we would all have shouting this instead of “fuck off”?

Avaunt, you cullions!

Henry V (3.2.20)

I scorn you, scurvy companion. What, you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you moldy rogue, away!

Henry IV, part 2


So let’s conclude with a final collection of quotations delivered, surprisingly fittingly, by cats.

And go out into the world with a healthy eagerness to improve ourselves… at others’ expense.



PPs. for further inspiration:

My last weekend in New York my two ballerina girl friends and I went clubbing. Here is my stream of consciousness from this experience. I feel like many girls will be able to relate…


Is it really dark in here or is everyone black?

Well I think that one guy is Indian.

Shimmy through the crowd, try not to shove anyone or get the awkward backend of a grind.

Alright we’ve staked our dance-space claim. Three white girls in a corner. Fringe property is not ideal generally, but we’ll make it work. Besides, I appreciate the extra space to move. Also we are near the DJ which seems cool to me.

Bustin a move, bustin a move, throw my hands up, sexy hands, doing things with my hips, dancin, dancin.

Oh shit that girl just made props/respect hand signals at Heather! Girl’s got skills erybody gonna recognize.

Dancin, dancin, dancin some more.

Omg the photographer just was like “Oh no, girl” and started dancing with Heather. I am so jealous. She is literally making guys stop doing their jobs to come dance with her. Dayummmmm.

I wonder if any guys are gonna dance with me? Probably not, because I’m ugly. Also my braids are on top of my head. Guys don’t get that.

But I might as well scope out the place.

Dance and twirl, dance and twirl. Looking sexy and 360 view.

A guy just said/club-shouted at me we’re killin it. Ballerinas know what’s up.

I guy wants to dance with me! I feel validated.

But really why? I look like Heidi that  just got off work and then tried to do that day-to-night transition I read so much about in magazines but got horridly confused mid transformation and went Daisy-Duke. I have braids like a swedish milkmaid and have gotten hot enough to resort to tying my button down shirt into a crop top. In no normal situation would I approve of this look.

He just asked me if I was foreign… This explains a lot.

Ok hips side to side.

Ok hips circle.

Holy shit is the DJ really wearing a floral tank top? Wtf has our society come to? It’s like the consumerism machine has tricked him into thinking he’s a hipster because he bought that stupid ironic floral shirt, but really that just makes him more a part of the machine. What a damn fool.

Ug I’m bored. I’m glad I feel validated in my man-attracting abilities, but I’m ready to be an independent woman again.

A single lady, if you will.

I just want to dance and be free. Now I’m stuck with this dude upon my back who only knows two moves. Plus it’s not like I can syncopate my dance moves or play with the musicality at all. Homie can’t follow that.

Hips side to side.

Hips circle.

I am excellent at pretending I know all these songs. There are basically two formulas: 1)Put your hands up when the song says put your hands up. 2)Jump and act excited when everybody else jumps and acts excited.

Why is he squeezing my belly? It’s not even squeezing, it’s like a flat-handed paw. Is this respectful groping? Or is it a tummy check…?

I wonder what it’s like to be a guy. I mean we can’t see them so we make up hand signals for our girlfriends to tell us if they’re ugly or hot or if we want to be extracted. But they really can’t see us much better. I wonder if they’re hand signaling between each other too? Maybe there’s a whole hand signaling world going on in the club that we don’t know about.

Probably not, boys aren’t that smart.

Well they can see the backs of our heads, so I guess that’s something. Plus they’re the ones on the prowl, so presumably they got a good look at us before they made their move.

Hey! I actually know this song! I am revived from my philosophical reverie of paired-dancing boredom!

Wait. I don’t want my renewed enthusiasm for dancing to be misinterpreted as enthusiasm for this dude or extra sluttiness. Ack, quandary!

I just want to be free! How do I escape the confines of this monotonous dance prison without insulting the dude? For some reason politeness matters to me. Even though I have never met this guy and he is rubbing all over me. This is kind of an ironic social situation.

Ok I could jump from him to go dance with my girl friend. Then it’s like, “Hey I just wanna dance with my friend now,” not, “I am rejecting you.” The problem is I don’t particularly like grinding up on girls. It’s not that I have anything against lesbians, but I do not happen to be one, so I do not enjoy this activity. Well I will dance slightly closer to her and maybe he will get the idea.

She says he’s hot. What ho? I really cannot see this dude. But for some reason I now have slightly more tolerance for dancing with him. I am aware this says something fucked up about me.

He club-shouted his name to me. Obviously I have no idea what he said.

I club-shouted my name back. Are we supposed to have a conversation now? This is ridiculous.

Aha Heather wants to get air. Opportunity for escape!

Shimmy back through the crowd. Hold hands or else we might lose someone to the void.

Freedom and fresh, cool night air! Despite all my griping about the lack of artistic dance-freedom, that was really quite fun:)

People of the world (we’ll be optimistic with that “world” part),

I am not proud of what I am about to show you, but some things are too funny not to see the light of day. When I returned home, I knew I had some comedic gold stashed away- I’ve kept every diary I’ve ever written, and I’ve written faithfully from a very young age. Now I went and unearthed these treasures, but I had forgotten (more likely repressed) what a horrifyingly idiotic child I was. What is about to follow are the multi-lingual (though by no means correct), shallow, ramblings of a fool. Ie. the precursor to me now. Not even a pretty little fool- I was like a greasy walking Abercrombie advertisement.

Please do not judge me too harshly. Ohhh but I know there’s no help for it. Judge away, but at least have a good laugh while you’re at it.


Allo mon Ami!

U R my new diary. Or shall I say tu a ma nouvelle diary. Today school went as usual. I got a 15.5/15 on my roman gravestone. Muchos more than I expected. Flabby Babby (Ms. Babb) still wildly CraZ. At brunch I found out Ariel is having a Halloween party and got myself invited. Vair, vair, disappointing that I was not already on the list since I have been eating w/ Ariel 4 atleast a month and a ½ . They still could just have put my name on the list and not really invite me. Hopefully not. Anyway. At lunch everything went as usual. Waterfight, Austen throwing soda on Taylor, Shelly gushing over Austen. I 2 happen 2 like Austen, but always considerate I put my friend first and will keep my pash 4 Austen 2 myself. After school I walked 2 the library and got Wuthering Heights and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Then I came back 2 school and walked Angela home w/ Shelly, Taylor, and Jack. Then I got my Vball uniform out and changed. I was still feeling tres malade avec pencil shaving sore throat as we got ready 4 our game against Kennedy. To make matters worse I was in the game 4 a total of 3 serves. Make account, none of them mine. When my mom talked to asshole (Shae)(coach) about it he said, “Which one is she?” Oh tres amusant our coach. He wasn’t joking. We still won ourgame and a few Kennedy Parents said we were better than Jordan. When I came home parents yelled at me about Babb, then I ate soup and had a little cry. When I started homework mom brought in cookies and we all made up. I finee devoir and took a shower. Then I finished my book, Away Laughing on a Fast Camel. Now that was tres amusant. Then I got my backpack ready for school 2morrow and put on eye shadow. Now 2 work out my plan on how not to be a ditz in PE and attract Austen. Now, according 2 my studies, boys like you when you don’t like them. So here ees ma plan:

1)   Ignore Austen unless spoken 2

2)   Work hard at football

3)   Open mouth little or none unless unwanted gabble comes out

4)   Be awesome at game.

Now hopefully this will work. Let me memorize it then eat it. Just kidding! Hahahah. Not. Hahhahaha. Not. Hahahahahha.

-An example of the gabble that comes out in PE.

Note to self. Add- get better laugh. Now somewhere between cackle and singing moose.

Bon Nuit!

Ali Lake

So that’s what I was like as a 12 year old.. Let’s just appreciate that one moment where I did something on the verge of being intelligent by checking out Wuthering Heights and Hunchback. On the other hand I must note that the book I had actually read, Away Laughing on a Fast Camel, is one of the trashiest pre-teen novels there is, which is where I got most of my idiotic/half french diction from. We must ask, why was I putting on eyeshadow at the end of the night? Also, why is this master plan the same basic outline for my boy entrancing strategy 9 years later?

Well I know you all are wondering how this master plan of mine turned out…

Chere Diary,

C’est 11h28, almost time for nuit nuit. Much time has past since last entery. I have tried my plan- here are the results-

  • Ignore Austin- Check. Have not been spoken to; easy peasy.
  • Work hard at football- Check. I must say I tried, and I am a mastermind. I came up with some ingenious plays!
  • Open mouth less- Check. gabble has decreased, time to work on saying inteligent stuff now.
  • Be awesome at game- err… as awesome as I can get.

New Goals:

  • Be kind to others (kindness is always beautiful) (right?)
  • Say normal, funny, things to friends.
  • Talk to Austen once this month
  • Keep up the awesomeness

Sounds okay 4 now!

Bon Nuit!

Ali Lake

Well it’s good to know my heart was in the right place with that whole ‘Be kind to others’ stuff… Hey and talking to the boy I liked once a month- that was daring.

Ok I must end with an excerpt from the next entry, which is mostly boring.  I spend a great amount of time analyzing whether my gym teacher is a pervert. My suspicions being founded on the fact that he said he’d love to see me “perform” (quotes from my 12 year old self). According to mini me, “There’s something a little “off” w/ him. I’m being very attentive so this doesn’t lead to sexual abuse.” (It doesn’t.)

But that’s not the highlight, this is: I recount our lunchtime activities-

“We all had fun, Shelly read us a scene from her new, incredibly dirty, book. My personely favorite quote, ‘Fuck me now.'”

Ah, youth.

To my sistas who have ever found themselves uncontrollably snarfing a bag of potato chips, lying in bed all morning eating chocolate, inexplicably crying while unloading the dishwasher, or tiptoeing down the hall in the dead of night to pilfer your roommate’s ice cream,

We need to do something about this injustice.

I’m talking about the injustice that only women have to go through PMS.

Today I was walking with my girl friend and she told me something horrifying. She had mentioned to her doctor that she felt like her PMS’s were especially bad lately, and he said that made sense because women in the 18-25 age range have more rampantly fluctuating hormone levels. He said it’s almost like going through a second puberty.

Sistas, I think I speak for all of this when I say,


Second puberty? Once was enough, mother fucker. I did my time in seventh grade- awkwardly taller than all the boys, braces, general greasiness. Ya, I remember that, and I’ll be damned if you’re sending me back for another round.

This doctor continued, “Yes, and it’s even worse since you’re around other girls all the time.”

DEM BITCHES! At this point in her story I physically pushed my girl friend away from me. We all know about syncing up, but all y’alls pheromones are up-ing my crazy factor too? There needs to be an app for this. I want an app that works like heat vision, but that shows how much pheromones all my girl friends are giving off. Boyfriends may also find a use for this app too. And by that I mean they can use it to determine the best time to come bearing gifts of chocolate, not  to undermine all of our superior arguments with that “are you on your period?” crap.

Now I was becoming indignant. We women have to suffer through the horrors of PMS, which if we make it through alive ends in blood  shooting out of our vag, but men don’t have anything? “Ohh no I woke up with a boner!” Wah wah wah. Waistband that shit. “Ooh I accidentally jizzed on my sheets” Fuck you! I wake up and it looked like a massacre occurred in my bed overnight! What do you think is harder to get out, some clear white jizz or blood red BLOOD?

And what’s the reward for our struggles? Oh great, I get the opportunity to waddle around like a pumpkin for 9 months and then force a football sized human out my vag. Brilliant. If PMS is any indicator for how I’m gonna be pregnant, men of the world, watch out. Rapunzel’s mother was craving some salad? She had it easy! I’m going to end up a 200 pound monster and with a child named Caramel Crunch Bar locked away in Nestle’s Toll House. If I have any self control it will be to aim for a slightly human-name-sounding craving like Kit Kat or Baby Ruth.

So this is where the feminist in me says it has to stop. I am officially petitioning God (and hoping that he reads these blog posts rather selectively…) to institute a MANstrual period. I’m not talking about like when a guy’s favorite sports team loses and he mopes about the house for days on end like a lil pussy. I mean I want some mood swings, some cravings, some unjustified craziness that can only be tamed with chocolate. Give me blood! I’d like to see how today’s greatest innovators handle The Manpon and a pad with room for balls. I want to see commercials where men twirl around in skirts, dance in all white outfits, and splash in skimpy bikinis on the beach to demonstrate how free they feel. Yes, this is what I want.

Now I’ll be lenient- I don’t particularly want to see a man try to push a baby out of his…. Yowza, that would inhumane. I’ll let that particular burden to women be offset by men’s general stupidity. But for the rest of it: let’s go, God.

So who’s gonna sign this petition with me?


On a slightly off-topic aside, check out all the things you can learn by Google Image-searching ‘tampon’.

There’s a website called

gunI’m not sure if I want those kind of talking points at my party… but on the other hand, it’s me, so maybe I do.

images-1It takes some real ovaries to rock this look.images

Disgusting, but also quite creative. I give props.

ninja-tampon-costume the_dirty_tampon Apparently this happend. *shudder*


You’re so right.


 Mind blown.SpongeBob-is-a-tampon_large

I was going through papers cleaning up my room and found some brilliant poetry of mine from high school. This one was to my best friend- we always used to go on walks at night and talk about our lives. It reminds me of some other very blog-worthy stories I have to tell involving her. Stayed tuned for The Night of Fifteen Boys and a Mountain Lion…

Elephant Hobo Suit

I have this little outfit,

it really is quite cute.

One of my very favorites,

I call it Elephant Hobo Suit.


Big grey sweats and hoodie,

Goes well with messy hair.

No boy could resist it, could he?

That’s why I’ll never share.


This suit’s for one girl only-

My very bestest friend.

I wear it on late night walks with her

cuz she’ll be with me til the end.<3

More girl talk. It’s not all talking about hot boys. Sometimes we’re making fun of you.

two scissors

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