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?”


“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.


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.


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.