You Write Good Blog: A How To

Hello, lovely people! I’m sure some of you are wondering how I got to be such a superb writer. Never fear! All the answers you seek can be compiled in a simple ten-step list. 

How To Write A Good Blog

1. Have good grammar and spelling. That is, well grammar and spelling. In order to practice this, spend most of your energy correcting the everyday language of your friends and family. Not only will you become a better writer, the people around you will definitely appreciate your efforts at helping them become their best selves. This is especially appreciated on Facebook.
2. Choose a platform. Concentrating on one issue will help you gain a reader base. My platform is “anything I feel like ranting about”.
3. Be #relatable.
4. Include comedy. People are more likely to read your blog if you’re funny, so it helps to have a reserve of good jokes. My personal favorite is this:
Knock knock.
Whose there?
You mean “who’s”.
5. Be interesting. I live every day as if I’m going to blog about it, so if I haven’t done anything worth writing about I quickly do something interesting, like steal a car. Of course, since that’s illegal I can’t actually tell people I did it, but you get the idea.
6. Piss people off. If you don’t get at least one good death threat per post, you’re doing it wrong. Sometimes I have to threaten myself, which is called being suicidal and frustrates my therapist, but it’s worth it.
7. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.
8. Writing in Latin isn’t pretentious, it’s sexy. I recommend using Google Translate to write each of your posts in a different language. Your readers probably won’t be able to understand you, but you’ll look smart.
9. Spread awareness on social media. Twitter is great for this. I don’t actually have a Twitter account, but if the president can use it so can us lowly intellectuals. 
10. Pick a different medium. Like your private diary. People are more likely to read it that way. 

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 Have Excellent Luck With Cops

I sometimes have a difficult time following “rules”, which I like to refer to as “suggestions”. This occasionally gets me in trouble with the law. I’ve found, however, that it’s not very hard to make police officers like you- you just have to be a young white female and pretend you’re stupid.

For example, the first time I was pulled over, the conversation went something like this:

“I’m really sorry Officer. Was I doing something wrong?”

“Ma’am, do you know what the speed limit is?”

“Seventy?”

“It’s twenty-five, ma’am.”

“Gosh golly! I’m so sorry, Officer. I thought this was a highway.”

“This is a neighborhood.”

“Oops. Lol. Good thing I’m not black, right? Love your lipstick.”

This technique is actually guaranteed to work, as I have never been arrested. I did come close once, though. This past summer, my girlfriend and I spent a lot of time in the Man Cave ™ I made in the back of my car (for a step-by-step tutorial, see the previous post). We had a favorite parking lot and everything. Unfortunately, our parking lot of choice was attached to a public park, and it’s illegal to stay on government property after God paints the sunset. Or something like that. Also, when the cop found us, Miley had been drinking and I was out passed the state curfew. Oops.

So anyway, this cop is all “I’ll give you a moment to collect yourselves”, which I interpreted to mean “stare blankly into the flashing lights of the police car in order to induce a seizure”. Then he said,

“Your license, ma’am,”

and I said, “Yes I have one”

and he said, “I need to see it.”

So I handed it to him, but the lights were still flashing and suddenly I felt very, very sick. I doubled over on the asphalt, hands on the ground, heaving.

Have you ever had a seizure?

I haven’t either, actually. I have had a very kind police officer help me up and set me back in my car with a water bottle he produced from God knows where. Miley said afterwards that he must have a soft spot for gay kids, because she was pretty sure I was about to be arrested for drunk driving, and she’d have to explain to my parents why they had to pick me up from the station at two in the freakin morning. Personally, I was using words stronger than “freakin”. (They start with the same letter though.)

Here’s a picture of me with the cop. Miley’s there too, but since we aren’t talking anymore I had to blur her face.

fullsizerender

When I was younger, I was a staunch believer in the Mormon church, which has a lot of rules. Here are a few of the actual Mormon commandments. 

  1. Don’t wear tank tops.
  2. Don’t wear bikinis.
  3. Don’t wear skinny jeans.
  4. Don’t be mean to people.
  5. Unless they’re women. Or black. Or gay. Or wrong.
  6. Don’t drink hot drinks. This means coffee and tea. Hot cocoa is okay, because it isn’t caffeinated. Also, caffeinated soda is okay. But hot + caffeinated = bad.
  7. Always wear your magic underwear.
  8. Child abuse, rape and murder are punishable by excommunication. So is gay marriage.

Following so many rules for the first sixteen years of my life has had some interesting effects. For example, I now wear exclusively bikinis. I’ve gotten complaints from the school, and they aren’t very comfortable to sleep in, but other than that I’ve enjoyed my small act of rebellion. Another side effect of Mormonism is that, like all good Mormons, I know eighteen ways to make green jello. But because I’m a bitter asshole, I only make green jello that’s hot and caffeinated, and then I make my family watch me eat it. I’ve included my favorite green jello recipe below so that we can all be miserable together.

Probably the biggest Mormon rule I’ve broken is the “be mean to gay people” one. I’m actually nice to gay people. Well, I’m nice to gay women. I buy them coffee. Also, we kiss.

 

 

How to Make Fiona’s Fantabulous Green Jello:

  1. Die. Or kill someone. Whichever works best for you.
  2. Have a funeral.
  3. The Mormons will bring you green jello.

I promise, this works. It really does. Mormons have a thing for funerals.

 

*I change everyone’s name in my blog, unless given express permission. I myself have given myself permission to use my real name, which is Fiona Chai. Fiona Chai means “white life”, which is cool because it’s completely racist.