Stephanie Georgopulos

I don’t regret filling in the blanks of my life with what unfolded on the internet. I actually regret not doing it more often.

I stared at this blonde thinking, “Eff, I’m trapped being me for the rest of my life.” And later, I told myself, “Well, so is she.”

I went to the hospital voluntarily. I was there to make money. I was there to smoke marijuana.

I had ducked out of the sun into a mostly-empty sushi restaurant for lunch, but this time it wasn’t preemptive. This time I had no book, no work, no distractions. For once, I was truly alone.

This book doesn’t attempt to elicit responses like, “This is so me!” In fact, it’s doubtful it will–which was exciting to realize, because women are not some homogeneous blob that look, feel, and speak the same way.

“HAY WORLD, GUNNA TRY U. WHAT’S CON ED? LOL”

I know 90s email chain letters and sex ed taught us otherwise, but chlamydia doesn’t always look like a molded piece of broccoli vomiting up blood clots.

Nothing says, “I know what I’m doing, okay?!” than someone who knows what to order at the bar.

In 1999, nothing was chicer — or more contrived — than writing an anthem about the biggest New Year’s event EVER (or, since the late 19th century).

I cried a little for the people I didn’t know, because a wedding is a wedding and weddings are intimate, whether you belong there or not.

It’s Valentine’s Day! And that means lots of things to lots of people.

The truthers are to President Obama as the rich, angry Capesiders are to Principal Green.