Stephanie Georgopulos

I had a crush on a character from every single TV show that ran from 1989-2000. It was only as an adult that I realized how deeply my feelings for fictional characters were rooted. I was flipping through channels, and who should I see but Michelangelo, whipping his nunchucks, being super hot and aloof. Next thing I know, I’m swooning and having flash backs of my “first time.” WHOA.

Growing up, I was encouraged by my parents to “be myself.” The sentiment was sweet; but in practice, these hippie parenting techniques resulted in multiple fashion disasters. Instead of being myself, I was a little bit of everybody else.

Kurt Cobain died when I was 8. It would be a few years before I’d become completely engulfed by his music and by his celebrity in general; but when that happened, I was utterly obsessed with him – particularly, his death.

But back in the day, there wasn’t any of this “answer 1,000 nitpicky questions” and “linking to real-life-stuff in my dating profile, thus opening myself up to be Google’d at maximum” business. Online dating was like, get in chat and type “24/f/nyc.”

If you’re wont to participate in what is typically referred to as a “relationship” (but more aptly described as a commitment to relentless disappointment), there may come a day that you are broken up with. If you’re shaking your head and mumbling, “No way, dude. Not me. All of my relationships end amicably and mutually,” then you’re either an aloof Dumper (the worst kind, in my opinion) or you’re a delusional Dumpee – in which case, this one’s for you.

11:25 AM: Leave home with aspirations of walking over the Williamsburg Bridge instead of taking the extremely convenient subway. Sure, it’s 35 degrees outside, but it’s sunny! And you’re out of shape! Time to get ambitious. 11:35 AM: It’s windy as hell, but you’re burning calories and your body is becoming a ball of confusion. Take off your jacket.

After an exhausting day, I retreated into my spacious, gleaming bathroom to take a much needed shower. To my horror, the water was ice cold. I called the super, enraged. “Oh? It was hot before, when I checked. Let me bring you your space heaters and check the water.” Space heaters? Where the fuck am I, a bomb shelter? This is my new ass apartment. What the fuck.

Show up at 7 PM. You’re the second to arrive – Friend 1 is already sitting at the bar sipping whiskey. Slip onto the barstool next to him. Apologize to the girl on your right for kicking the instrument case she has resting against the bar, acting as a barrier between the two of you.

Jeffree Star may have very well been someone’s AB once upon a time; but at the peak of his MySpace fame he more closely resembled the Barbie’s World equivalent of Marilyn Manson. His pink hair and glittery persona was all Babs, but the “I removed my bottom ribs to perform oral sex on myself” look was totally Marilyn.

Bumper Stickers: A trend I remember fondly. At one point in college, I had five female roommates. The six of us would sit in the same room in complete silence and either waste hours battling on Scrabulous.com or sending each other Bumper Stickers. I only permitted Bumper Stickers from Someecards to remain on my page.

There comes a day in the life of every social network when programmers realize they have enough information about you to gauge which friends are missing from your list. A couple of algorithms later, your dashboard starts to resemble a Night of the Living Dead scenario.

Despite stirring up the deeply rooted notion that I would never have as much fun as blonds do, I’ve always had a soft-spot for the dearly departed John Ritter. A valuable lesson I learned from him was to make some rules and make ‘em known, because you never know when you might suffer from aortic dissection mid-season, leaving the rest of your TV family in the care of your caraaaazzzzyyy nephew, whose only rule is “get laid by any means necessary.”