Advice Column: How Do I Kill My Family? And Other Important Questions

Dear Fiona,


I hate my family. How do I kill all of them without anyone finding out?



Your Little Sister


Dear Winnie,


I’m telling Mom.



The Favorite Child




Dear Queen,


Will I make friends in college?





Dear Anti,


Probably not.



Queen Fiona




Dear Fiona Chai,


I’m depressed. How do I pet a giraffe?


Please respond promptly,

Dying in Denver


Dear Dying,


I think you can pet giraffes at the San Diego Zoo. Here’s some directions that might help: drive to the Golden Gate Bridge, park your car, get out, jump off the edge.


Hope this helps!

Fiona Chai






How do I steal my sister’s stuff before she goes to college?







Touch my things and I will kill you in your sleep.



Big Sis




Dear QueerProtagonist,


My arm is stuck in a vent. Pls help.





Dear Stuck,


Have you tried not sticking your arm in vents?




Fiona Chai




Dear Fiona,


My girlfriend is going to college 2,ooo miles away in New York CIty because for SOME REASON Colorado isn’t good enough for her. How do I cope?



Horny and Depressed


Dear Boyfriend,









Dear The Queer Protagonist,


I’m in love with my older coworker who blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah


Yours truly,

Pining at Pratt


Dear Pining,


Shut up!


With utmost sincerity,


Fiona Chai


… … …


Dear Fiona,


I just broke up with my boyfriend. How do I get over him?



Horny and Depressed 2.0


Dear Horny 2.0,


You won’t. Ever.


Best wishes,

Fiona Chai


I Do Prom Stuff

I don’t remember much about prom because at the after party I ate seven cones of cotton candy. I do remember saying, hazily, sometime after three in the morning, “This is one of the best nights of my life,” to which my boyfriend agreed. We then played a board game where we killed each other.

My prom group included my token gay friend, my #squad sister, the straight girl I have a crush on, the straight boyfriend I’m in love with and me (that was probably self-explanatory). We went to this awesome restaurant where the water came in fancy pitchers and we couldn’t pronounce anything on the menu. Because my life revolves around food, I ate twelve pieces of olive bread, half a cheese board, and a piece of broccoli.

Prom itself was kinda lame. School dances never have good music. Like, excuse me? Where’s the Beethoven? Mozart? Schuman? Nada, that’s where. But they did have more food, including these fantastic pudding cups. So it was worth it.

The school-hosted after party, on the other hand, was LIT. They had SO MUCH FOOD. In addition to the aforementioned cotton candy, I ate a bag of cheetos, two garlic knots, seven jolly ranchers and thirty four starbursts. To be completely honest, I’m surprised I can still walk, but according to my friends I did a lot of stuff, like get this caricature drawn of my boyfriend. For some inexplicable reason, I wanted him to be a pirate.

Andrew Pirate Characature

Andrew and I also took this with two of our friends, who I’ve decided to call Fergie and Duhamel. The second picture is  everyone pointing signs at me reading “hot mess”. It’s proof that I’m bullied.

Prom Photo Booth

Andrew is the one who is noticeably dating me. I’m the one who looks perpetually high. Duhamel is Asian and Mexican. So is Fergie, actually. I think. I can’t really keep track of who’s what race, and in this case it really doesn’t matter because when Fergie and Duhamel get rude looks it’s usually because they’re kissing in public, not because they aren’t white.  

“Oh yeah,” Andrew remarked thoughtfully on one occasion. “You’re gay.”

This lead to them making out in the mall parking lot in order to further remind Andrew that they are, in fact, gay.

Fergie and Duhamel are important people in my life because they make me feel like an adult. My boyfriend and I have couple friends we hang out with. Somehow this translates into maturity, even though our activities include things like jumping on a trampoline at midnight and finding speed bumps to drive over. Couple dating also means we’re very invested in each other’s relationships, so Fergie has become mine and Andrew’s relationship counselor. His advice is usually “just talk to Andrew about it”.

After the prom after party, the four of us went to Andrew’s house and did some things I don’t remember while I ate chocolate and then passed out in a sugar coma. So overall, it was a good night.

And now, for my Queer Protagonist opinions: everything about prom is cisheteronormative, from the music to the outfits to the crowning of the king and queen. I don’t care. It’s fun, and even I can’t be angry about everything.


Update: Fergie has informed me that he is not, in fact, Mexican. I’ve told him that he’s lying  but he doesn’t believe me.


I Join A Clique

Warning: this post may contain strong language. Actually, you know what? This post definitely contains strong language. I know, since I fucking wrote it. Last year I had an amazing group of friends. It was the first time I’d been part of a tight-knit clique rather than an oozing mob. To commemorate this special relationship, I wrote a series of poems dedicated to these three lovely girls. 

The first one is entitled “Elaine”*.
Fuck you

Fuck you

Fuck fuck fuck fuck 

This second one is “Victoire”. 
An inability to become emotionally invested in people is not a virtue, you miserable bastard. 
And finally, “Miley”:
After I made out with Elaine (more on that here: )Victoire stopped talking to us for a week without explaining why, and then after causing several mental breakdowns for both herself and the rest of us, she decided to go with us to Homecoming. In order to regain our friendship, she said we could do whatever we wanted to her. So we egged her car. 

Victoire spent the remainder of senior year avoiding me. She started talking to Elaine again, although god knows why, because the whole egging thing was Elaine’s idea. Elaine and I stayed close for a while, and then I said something about “you shouldn’t cheat on your boyfriend” and she broke up with me. I think Miley and Elaine are still friends. Sort of. I wouldn’t know, since I blocked Miley’s number. 

The reason I’m bringing this up is, firstly, because I’m bitter. As an example, see below- last night a group of friends and I burned a picture Victoire painted for my boyfriend back when he was stupid and dating her instead of me. (This group of friends included the infamous Rose Velt (Rose Velt doesn’t really need to be mentioned here but asked nicely so I agreed (“nicely” is relative- I might have been concussed at the time so I forget most of the details (how many parentheses can I include in one sentence?))).)

Secondly, I want to explain queer-platonic partnerships. That’s what Elaine, Victoire and I were. Queer-platonic is a label used to describe a love that’s not romantic but goes deeper than friendship. It establishes a special connection with two or more people of any gender or sexuality without adding the pressures of dating or sexual intimacy. Blah blah blah, word sewage, something fancy to convince you that “queer platonic” isn’t millennial hipster junk. Which it totally is. But that doesn’t diminish the fact that I loved those girls more than anything in the world. 

Let’s have a quick Question and Answer about queer-platonic partnerships. If you have questions I don’t answer here, feel free to ask me in the comments.
Q: Aren’t you just describing friends with benefits?

A: Yes. Except the benefit isn’t sex, it’s a onslaught of crippling depression when you break up. So actually I’m describing “friends with horrific side effects”. I think this applies to humanity in general, though.
Q: What’s the most important aspect of having a successful queer-platonic partnership?

A: As in most relationships, communication is essential. It’s also essential not to be a jealous bitch. For example, if your partner loves someone else in addition to you, it will make you happier to recognize that this in no way diminishes their feelings for you. And if you do have a problem with something your partner is doing, for example, making out with another partner, it’s important to talk to both of them instead of shutting down because you have unrealistic expectations for people and think they can magically read your mind. This is, of course, a hypothetical situation and I’m not pointing fingers at anyone (*cough* Victoire *cough cough*).
Q: Fiona, why are you being so petty?

A: I’m not being petty! Maybe YOU’RE being petty.

Q: You’re the one who wrote a blog post dissing the girls you used to love.

A: Yeah, okay, I’m being a little petty.

Q: A lot petty.

A: I’m being extremely petty. To be fair, Victoire still doesn’t acknowledge my presence in class, has sleepovers with my ex girlfriend, and tried to get my boyfriend to break up with me. I think I’m entitled to a little pettiness. 
I know I hurt Victoire. But she hurt me too, and unlike her, I tried to fix it. Right now I’m being petty because writing this makes me feel better, and then I’ll let it go. That’s the best anyone can do.
*I did, technically, change all names used in this post. I’m not sure how much good that does since most people who know me also know Victoire, Elaine and Miley, but I did try. So probably no one can sue me.

I Offend People (Everyone)

My sophomore history teacher told me I couldn’t be a politician because I’d get stabbed. A year later my best friend stuck me with her pocket knife. The point here is that I am well aware, as is anyone who’s talked to me, that I offend people.

Here are some of the offensive things I’ve said:

  • Women don’t need to vote because their husbands can do it for them
  • Stop cutting for attention
  • Religion is a scourge upon the Earth
  • Dental health is a scam created by the government (to my orthodontist)
  • Yes, it makes your ass look big

This blog mostly offends my mother, which is entirely understandable, since I regularly insult her world view. We had a conversation about this once. She said,

“Fiona, I wouldn’t let someone come into our house and be mean to you about your sexuality, so please don’t make fun of the things I consider sacred.”

“No, but you do make me go to a church that could excommunicate me, which is worse.”

She didn’t like that answer. Now she lets me know beforehand when I’m not allowed to blog about something. She also writes her own blog to make fun of me. It’s pretty good, just not as good as mine, and I highly recommend it:

The most offensive thing I’ve ever done was write this essay in 10th grade English. I had to support or reject Transcendentalism, the most deeply flawed philosophy I’m aware of next to Veganism (okay that was a joke, vegans, chill) but I was only given Transcendentalist sources to provide evidence from. According to Transcendentalism, lack of access to information is morally incorrect, so I wrote the whole essay on why I couldn’t write the essay. My teacher initially gave me a 10% in every category, including spelling, and was not happy when I pointed out that she couldn’t actually take points away in some categories because my speling is ducking prefetc. After a lot of angry threats on both sides we had another teacher grade the essay. I got a D. Worth it.

This blog post is part disclaimer, part apology. I know I hurt feelings, and I really am sorry about that- not sarcastically sorry, but genuinely apologetic. I love my mom. I love Mormons. I even love my sophomore English teacher (sort of). I realize that I’m brash, brazen, and wrong about a lot of things.

But here’s something else I know: I’m worth listening to. My life is different than yours, so my opinion is different. I know different things and I understand them in different ways. My truth is worth expressing, even if it makes some people mad.

You’re worth listening to as well. If I offend you, whether in person or in this blog, let me know.

Thanks for reading. Here’s a fun picture of a cat.


I was going to just end this post with the cat, because who doesn’t like cats?? but I thought I should probably explain some of my above statements. Because I want at least one blog post that doesn’t need to include a trigger warning. So, to clarify:

  • Women should absolutely have the right to vote, as well as the right to proper healthcare and a president who isn’t a rapist
  • I self-harm, and am seeing a therapist about it, which I firmly believe is the right course of action for most people. If you cut, or are in any other way in danger because of mental health, there’s a crisis textline ( it’s great because you don’t have to call people!). Text CONNECT to 741741
  • Many religions do a lot of good things, but I’m embittered about the Mormon stance on women and LGBTQ rights
  • Dental health is a scam. No excuses for this one. Braces are ridiculous
  • A big ass is not necessarily an unfortunate thing *hums Anaconda by Nicki Minaj*
  • I don’t actually like Nicki Minaj.

There. If you’re going to be offended, be angry at my taste in music.

I Have Two Gay Boyfriends

My boyfriend is gay. He’ll deny this, but he once called his best friend “Darling”. Best friend and I won’t let him forget this, no matter how many times he points to the fact that he just happened to be thinking about me. While looking at his best friend. And talking to him.

“You were standing right there!” Andrew protests while reading this post over my shoulder. Shut up. We all know who you really love.

I don’t have a problem with his sexuality, because this is the guy who agreed to an open relationship where I occasionally date girls, so I’m really in no position to judge. On the other hand, he might be straight, because he wears track pants and a sweatshirt every day. One of the gays needs to give him a fashion lesson.

He’s still protesting. “I don’t dress gay, I don’t act gay, I’m sorry that I’m secretly in love with Jenkins*….” etc. (There were also a few expletives in there.)

I have another gay boyfriend. This one is actually gay, but actually not my boyfriend. I did ask him out once, to try to prove to my mother that I’m not a lesbian, but we ended up not going out and then not talking to each other for a year because we felt awkward. Also, Mom still calls me a lesbian.

I knew Steve was gay two years before he came out because of the way he holds his hands. Gay people have flashy wrists. 

flashy wrist


Logically, I know this is stereotyping, but Steve tries very hard to be a stereotype and is largely successful. He takes- and this is not hyperbole- literal hours to plans out his Starbucks order. He thinks La La Land is the best American creation ever, including the creation of democracy. He likes guys. See? Totally gay.

But Steve talks about being physically attracted to me. He likes looking at girls, just not being with them. His random hookups are usually guys. We were talking about this the other day, lounging in the (gay) grass with his (gay) head on my (lesbian, according to my mother) lap, and he said,

“What’s wrong with me?” while moving his flashy gay hands wildly.

Oh, Steve. Silly boy. What’s wrong with you is what’s wrong with most of us- crippling depression. Other than that, nothing.

“You might be bisexual,” I said. “Or you’re homosexual and smart enough to realize that I’m damn sexy. Or, you don’t need to label yourself because you’re wonderful the way you are.”

I personally love labels. They’re a great way to express something to the general population without having to describe it in a wordy blog post. I label myself as bisexual, because I’m attracted to both boobs and penises. Also, collarbones. Everyone has collarbones so everyone is automatically smokin’.

I also label myself as panromantic. Pan means all, as in all genders, since some people don’t choose to label themself as male or female. The romantic part comes from who I like romantically versus sexually. For me, there’s a disconnect between romantic and sexual attraction (and yes I realize this is not the case for most people, and I respect that, you horny bastards). I’ve liked people of multiple genders, so I’m panromantic, but there are only two sets of genitalia and I like them both, so I’m bisexual.

I also label myself as HELLA FINE.

Andrew labels himself as “yes Fiona I’m a straight white male I’m so glad you love me anyway”. It’s not that I dislike straight white males, it’s just that most of them are annoyed by my ranting about the patriarchy. In that regard, they’re similar to my mother.

Oh, what was that? You’re a straight white male and your feelings are hurt? I apologize. And I’m actually being sincere here- labels are fine when you give them to yourself, but being grouped into boxes just because of your race, sexuality or gender is not okay. In order not to discriminate, I just hate everyone.
*Jenkins is the name Andrew chose, not his friend’s real name (thank god). Steve is also fake. Not the person, the name.

I Become (relatively) Less Crazy

My boyfriend and I are arguing about who’s crazier.

I think it’s him. This is the guy who kidnapped his best friend, tied him up, and locked him in the trunk of a car. For fun. And it wasn’t one of those nice, big, airy trunks. It was a tiny, claustrophobic, panic-attack inducing hell hole. You know- the kind that screams, “I’m a serial killer, but I’m too cheap to buy a van”.  That’s borderline psychotic.

“Well, we had permission from his mom,” Andrew* says. “And anyway. It’s not as crazy as a threesome.”

“We didn’t have a threesome!”

“In the back of your car. While it was moving.”

It wasn’t a threesome. My friends (ie, “cult”) and I were playing Gay Chicken, which  is a great game for horny, bisexual teenagers with little to no social life. Basically, the goal is to make your same-gender competitor as physically uncomfortable as possible, while they do the same to you. First one to feel awkward enough to call it off loses. As a horny bisexual teenager myself, I kick ass at Gay Chicken. And since most of my friends are also gay it’s really just an excuse to touch people you aren’t dating. Please pray for our souls.

The game in question happened in October, in the parking lot of an abandoned baseball diamond. We were in the back of my car because Gay Chicken doesn’t have a high parental approval rating, and the game ended when Victoire, who has a butch haircut but is completely straight, threatened to leave because Elaine and I were making her uncomfortable. It’s worth noting here that Elaine and I were actually playing against each other, not Victoire, but we’re both about as stubborn as our current Congress so no one was willing to concede the game.  We called it a tie and made Victoire drive us to IHop while Elaine, myself, and my then girlfriend (and current cringe story) made out in the back of the car. The whole situation is one that my imaginary and bespectacled Great Aunt Margarine would call “scandalous”, but we didn’t actually have sex.

“You’re still crazier,” Andrew says. “Smh.” (He doesn’t actually say “smh”. I’m paraphrasing.)

The “who’s crazier” argument lasts for about three days, to the general entertainment of the unfortunate people who have to listen to us. I point out that kidnapping is illegal, and that the back of my car is safer than Andrew’s trunk because I turned it into a Man Cave™, complete with decorative pillows and a floral quilt. Andrew and his surprisingly invested friend group refuse to accept this.

Until…  *cue dramatic music* their car battery died.

Why did the car battery die?

They’d spent the night on a stake out of the same friend they’d recently abducted. After tailing him to his girlfriend’s townhome, they’d sat there and waited in the darkening parking lot for two hours. Two hours. I give up on homework after, like, four minutes.

Being the goddess among men that I am, I drove over and let them use my car to restart the battery. Andrew finally admitted that he’s crazier, and I received a lovely thank you note graffitied on my windshield: “Thanks for turning on Andrew and his car”.


Anyway, the point in all this is that I won our argument. I guess another point would be that stalking is bad, but if that’s true then why are so many people on Facebook? Smh. You can be the judge of your own morals.

Until next time, Fiona Chai out.



Side Note: Everyone should have a Man Cave™. Here’s a detailed tutorial for how I made mine:

  1. Mom told me to make my bed.
  2. I didn’t want to make my bed, so instead I took all of my blankets and pillows and threw them in my trunk.


I know this is a little complicated, so if you have any questions on how to make your own Man Cave™, just ask in the comments. Please keep in mind that this is not a beginner DIY project, but I’ll do my best to help.


*Andrew said I could use his real name, but I changed everyone else’s. This is because I don’t want them to get famous like me. Also, I wouldn’t put it passed Victoire to sue me for using her real name, which is Hannah**.


**Just kidding. Victoire’s real name isn’t Hannah. She really would sue me.