Real Women Have Beards

Bearded women have always fascinated me. Not in the fact that I think about them all the time, or fantasize about them, or wish I was one. But I have recently noticed that I somehow manage to work the term, "bearded woman" into many conversations. You may be thinking that bearded women are not near relevant to many conversation topics, but believe me: they are. For example:

"My dad got mad at me today for not returning his phone call."

"Does your dad have a beard? Because some women do."

or...

"I've never been to Disneyworld."

"Well when I went to Disneyworld I saw a bearded woman."

or...

"It is such a beautiful day!"

"That is EXACTLY the type of thing a bearded woman would say."

It was only a couple years ago that this fascination started. So many questions were arising in my mind...

Who was the first bearded woman?

Why don't we have a national holiday for her?

Would I ever grow a beard?

How many bearded women are there in the world?

Are there more than we think, but a lot of them shave so we don't know?

What man would marry a bearded woman?

Would that make him secretly gay?

And finally...

What would it feel like to shave?

So...being the curious cat that I am, I decided to walk into my father's bathroom and use his electric razor.

...Or at least what I thought was his electric razor.

Yeah.

So I'm shaving away. Here, there, everywhere. I must admit I was thoroughly enjoying the "zzzzz" sound, smiling away as I hit up every part of my face. Left cheek, right cheek, chin, forehead (making sure to stay clear of my eyebrows. I am fond of my eyebrows, I'd like to keep them.), even my upper lip. (not my actual lip, that area above your lip and below your nose...don't know what that's called. I've always referred to it as the "mustache area" but that implies I have a mustache, which I don't. Which leads me to even more questions):

If there are bearded women, are there solely mustache women?

Goatee women?

Soul patch women?

1970's sideburns women?

The point is, that thing was all over my face. Near my lips, my mouth, LIPS. MOUTH. Did you catch that? The areas used for eating, kissing, covering in Burt's Bees, those areas. As I'm shaving away, having a jolly ol' time and humming to myself songs of pure happiness, I see my dad's electric razor sitting on the sink, the one I usually see him use.

"Huh."

That was my first thought.

"Hmmm."

That was my second thought.

"FUCK."

That was my third thought.

The label on the side of the razor I just smeared all over my face, the label I did not care to read until I had put that razor ALL OVER MY FACE, read a little something like this:

BODY HAIR TRIMMER

Are you confused? Bewildered? Baffled? Are you thinking, "No...it can't be..." Well guess what buddy. IT CAN. I, Natasha Ferrier, had just rubbed my father's pubic hair "trimmer" all over my fucking face. The same device my father uses to trim his pubes was above, and below, my lips. Are you disturbed? Disgusted? Imagining pubic hair? You sicko. And, if you think "Body Hair Trimmer" doesn't necessarily have to mean crotch pubes, you're mistaken. How do I know this? Because after freaking out, which went like this:

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

(Picture Macauley Culkin in Home Alone 2.)

I then ran downstairs and told my stepmom what I had just done. After laughter, since, sure, if it's not you whose dad's pube razor was all over your face, then it's pretty funny, she told me that, yes, the razor is what I thought it was for. What my life? FUCK MY LIFE.

Recap time!

Was/am obsessed with beards.

But only on women.

Women with beards.

Bearded women.

Shaved my face.

Dad's razor.

Dad's NOT razor.

Dad's pubic hair trimmer.

On my face.

For quite awhile.

Kids, don't try this at home.

Fear and Loathing at the Podium

Public speaking has been said to be the number one fear of Americans. I understand that. I know that if I, personally, were faced with the decision of talking in front of a group or getting my eyes scooped out of my skull with a spoon, I would be one blind mother fucker. WHAT THE HELL PEOPLE. You're trying to tell me you get more heebie jeebies in front of a group watching you speak than in front of a group watching you being put six feet under the ground? Shall I reiterate the topic of this rant I am about to conduct?

The majority, wait you didn't quite catch that, THE MAJORITY, of Americans say that, above all things, they are most terrified of speaking. In public. Do we not do that everyday? When you are walking down the street venting out all your relationship troubles and theories on life and how your roommate stole your plunger, other people hear you. Other people, who are in public. Baffled, are you? You never thought of how stupid or random you must sound to a passerby when you're engulfed in your rants to your best friend? You're telling me you've never heard tidbits and fragments of other people's conversations where you just thought, "God that person is an idiot." These are recent ones I've heard:

"No, I'm not talking about my dog, I'm talking about my boyfriend."

What? Did your boyfriend sniff your asshole?

"I eat food."

Oh, do you now? You eat food? Do you breathe air as well?

"I love when the weather is nice."

What a unique individual YOU are.

If so many people are scared shitless of public speaking, does that mean they only speak in private? Who are these "private speakers?" Is private speaking such a term? If so, what would that be exactly? People who will only converse with you if you're in a dark alleyway where no one can see you? People who talk to themselves? People who talk to their privates? As in private parts? As in who the FUCK does that? I NEED TO MEET THESE PEOPLE. I need to meet them, introduce myself, "Hi I'm Natasha yes that's how you pronounce it yadda yadda yadda I've been explaining my name for almost 2 decades thank a lot Mom and Pops blah blah blah" and then punch them in the face. Yes, I do realize that that may come across as "violent" or "unnecessary" or "fuckin weird" but this, I believe, is what these people deserve. It's not that I don't understand. I realize that phobias are beyond our control. I may say, "Why are you scared of public speaking you weirdo," and they can easily rebuttal with "Why are you scared of Oompa Loompas you freak," so you may be thinking this is a lost cause, but before you do, hear me out.

You know when you're talking to someone, and they don't seem interested at all? Not in the least bit? Either they're nodding their head incessantly while going, "Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh." in the middle of you speaking, so you know they're really just trying to convince you that they already understand so there's no need for you to continue, or they're staring at you blankly so you know while you're talking they're really just taking what you're saying and relating it to themselves and thinking of tons of personal experiences they're going to spout off to YOU just as soon as you shut your mouth. Some people don't quite catch on to these subtle displays of body language that translate into, "I. DO. NOT. CARE." and they keep on talking your head off. These people suck. But so do the people who don't listen to you. That is why I, personally, do not care to share my personal stories as much as everyone else does because I know they don't give a shit and I know that I'm guilty of doing it, too. As soon as someone mentions an "ex", I start thinking of mine, as soon as someone mentions their parents, I start thinking of mine, as soon as guys start talking about their balls being licked, I don't know what to think. This is exactly the same situation as public speaking, except BETTER. This is why I love, love public speaking. Shall I go into more detail?

I walk up there, podium or no podium. (Podiums were really just invented for people with odd-looking bodies. Can you imagine if our world was podium-less? We wouldn't hear any speech William H. Taft made; we'd just be looking at his big fat body and imagining what a body like that looks like naked. But thanks to the invention of the podium, bodies are hidden and we as the audience are guilt-free!) With public speaking, I can talk and talk and talk and I don't have to listen to anyone else! It's all about me! It's all about what I'M saying, not you! Nanny nanny boo boo mother fuckers! You HAVE to listen to me and if you don't, I won't even notice because I'm not looking at you! No worries about eye contact, or accidentally looking down at someone's chest, or noticing something in someone's teeth and being completely disgusted, or sneezing on someone and completely disgusting them. Here, in the realm of public speaking, I can look wherever the fuck I want and sneeze wherever the fuck I want! I don't have to pause and pretend I care about your response; I can go as long as I want and I won't feel bad about it. Seriously, a million eyes on you is way better than just two. With just two, think how closely you get examined as you speak. With a million, that just means more people who are afraid you'll catch them dozing off or texting someone. YOU have the power; not them.

If you're number one fear is public speaking, and you're reading this thinking, 'She doesn't understand. She just doesn't understand,' then I have three suggestions for you:

1. GET OVER IT

2. MOVE ON

3. IMAGINE OOMPA LOOMPAS GIVING YOU A LAP DANCE

Public speaking will be your number one fear no longer.

Till Laundry Do Us Part

I’ve decided that if I ever want to get married, there are many things I am going to have to hide about myself. I do not possess any of the typical traits of a “good wife,” nor do I possess any traits of personal hygiene. (I mean, I bathe, people, come on. I brush my teeth and flush the toilet and all that jazz. Just let me finish before you jump to the conclusion that I walk around like that little kid from the Peanuts who always has a dirt cloud around him. Though, if you haven’t noticed, no one seems to give a shit. Not even Charlie Brown who has some serious depression problems.) So, for hypothetical purposes, let’s pretend that I am engaged.

Things My Potential Hubby Can Never Do

walk into my room.

See, this already is a problem. I’m about to marry a guy who can’t walk into my room? Closet Freak is bad enough, but Room Freak? What if I have to get something out of my room?

“Hey, let me grab something real quick.”

“I’ll help.”

“NOOOOOOO!”

(Door slams in his face and the click of the lock is heard, then the twisting of the knob three or four times to make sure it’s really locked, then a heavy sigh of relief on the other side of the door from yours truly. If a guy sticks around after I do this, we have bigger problems than the room.)

You’re wondering, what’s so wrong with Natasha’s room? Is it that messy? Look, people, “mess” is an under-the-deepest-darkest-sea-where-Ursula-dwells-statement. (Understatement, if that was hard to follow.) Yeah, clothes do not ever enter the realm of the closet; I can’t see my floor; I step on things that break and then I’m bleeding all over the clothes that are on the floor because something is sticking out of the bottom of my foot and then blood gets on my bed when I go to sleep with my bleeding foot and he'll see blood on my bed and that's gross enough and weirdly mysterious and not in a good way all because I didn't see the fucking tac or pin or giant knife or whatever it was on the floor because the CLOTHES are on the floor and I didn't see because I don’t walk with my head down because I used to do that and everyone would be like “Awww Natashaaaa why are you so sadddd...” and I’d be like, “Awwww why don’t you go FUCK YOURSELF,” but the floor of my room is irrelevant. My mess goes beyond the norm. I picked up some construction paper to write on and then realized I was writing on a dried up piece of balogna. I thought there was a cup of pudding on my dresser until it hit me that I don’t eat pudding. Whatever it is continues to mold and I don’t plan on halting the process. I found cat shit in my room a week ago and it’s still there.

expect to eat

I don’t cook. I make scrambled eggs and that’s it. I put cheese on these eggs...I’ve burned the cheese to a crisp so many times making my scrambled-eggs-concoction that now I absolutely love the taste of dried-up-brown-mozzarella. It’s delicious. I don’t go grocery shopping. There are better things to spend my money on, like Mad Monster Party bobbleheads. Isn’t that supposed to be a man’s dream? A wife who can cook him some good meals!

“Honey, I’m home!”

“Honey! Let me give you a kiss!”

“Look babe, we’ll kiss later. Where the fuck is my lasagna.”

See, in my home, there would not be lasagna. There would be eggs. If even that. My husband would not only have incredibly high cholesterol, but---no, that’s it actually. High cholesterol. And that won’t fly if we plan on growing old together.

walk into my closet

Now, I don’t actually think that someone’s closet is a regular place for people to walk into. It’s small and dark and that would be incredibly bizarre if you brought a boy over and he either:

asks to look in your closet

“Can I look in your closet?”

“What? No. That’s weird.”

strolls on into your closet

“Potential Hubby? Where are you?”

“I’MMMM INNNN YOURRR CLOOOOOSETTTT...”

“What?”

“I’MMMM INNNN YOURRR CLOOOOSETTTT...”

“Well get the fuck out!”

opens the door of your closet then closes it

“Why did you just do that?”

“Do what?”

“You just looked into my closet.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So that’s weird.”

“I was just looking.”

“At what?”

“Your closet.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“This conversation is going nowhere. Leave.”

“Before I go...can I go in your closet?”

“NO YOU FREAK.”

So if someone future-groom of mine came over, he would either see an empty hamper or a hamper full of clothes. Though these are two complete opposites, they mean exactly the same thing: I don’t do laundry. The fact that I don’t do laundry would make him wonder if my clothes are dirty...meaning ALL my clothes...meaning the clothes UNDERNEATH my clothes...and he would think that is gross. And he would leave. And I would have no groom and no clean clothes.

(Look, just to clear things up, I have plenty of clothes to survive for months without washing a single article. And I have been to known to occasionally use a washer and dryer, just not as often as most. I have better things to do than wash my clothes, people. Like wear my clothes.)

See? I'm screwed.

How To Lose A Roommate In Ten Days

It's only my third week in Dorm Life and I already feel complete and utter SUCCESS in my Ultimate Quest To Piss Off My Roommates, also known as, How To Lose A Roommate In Ten Days, also known as, What I Do Instead of Homework, also known as, I'm Immature So What Fuck Off.

Luckily, there are 4 of us total, and luckily, one of them shares my unexplained impulses to make other people feel incredibly uncomfortable in their very own home. Sure, you could do the typical things, like play loud music, leave your trash everywhere, bring a boy back and make loud noises with him till the wee hours of the morning, bring ten boys back and make ten times the noise till the wee hours of the morning, but none of these things quite spark my interest. My Partner in Crime and I (it has struck me that you must have a partner in crime when it comes to these things; otherwise, it's just "majority rules" and you lose) have together come up with not five, but SIX creative but easy ways to make your roommates want to smother you in your sleep that, yes, we have in fact put to the test. Enjoy.

1. When your roommates spend 4 whole days decorating the living room with color-coordinated couch cushions and have hung on the walls black and white photographs as well as paintings, tell them you want to help decorate. This alone will freak them out. Watch their facial expressions significantly change when you say you're going to go to Dollar General to buy the stuff you think would look great. Come back with a giant Jeff Gordon poster and stick it right next to the Painting of Tulips.

2. Blow up one or two condoms and tape them to the walls. At first, your roommates will think you have just been hiding a secret talent for making balloon animals. Then, when they realize they cannot figure out what animal you have made, (is it a worm? a caterpillar? a maggot?), they will most likely move in closer and then see that it is just an inflated Trojan. Magnum-sized. You may wake up the next morning to find that your strategically placed rubbers are now strategically placed in the trash can. But this is why you bought a pack of condoms, not just one.

3. As soon as Autumn rolls around, suggest that you decorate your dorm with "Autumn-like" things. Knowing that Jeff Gordon has nothing to do with the season of Fall, your roommates will be ecstatic. Trek it back to Dollar General and come back with an innocent little scarecrow to hang on the front door. When your roommates have left, cut a hole in the scarecrow's pants and glue one of his hands in there. Then, splash a few dollops of white-out onto his pants. Now, not only will he scare away the crows, he will scare away your roommates. All with gizz in his pants.

4. Purchase a brand new set of chalk. Colored, preferably, though white chalk will do just fine. When your roommates walk out the front door, be seated on your balcony with newly purchased chalk and be drawing girly things, like flowers, or ponies, or ponies in flowers. As soon as they are out of sight, begin to draw giant penises right outside your front door. Don't have them all look the same, try changing up the size, shape, or action the giant penis is partaking in. It may be tempting to just write the word 'PENISSSSS.' Do not do this. Please remember that a picture speaks a thousand words.

5. There will be a time where one of you will get sick. It is likely that once one of you gets sick, all of you will. Put on a smile and offer to buy everyone cough drops. Return with bags and bags of cough drops. Also return with rolls and rolls of double-sided tape. Stick one-inch strips of tape onto walls, cupboards, cabinets, and your roommate's bananas. Carefully smack a cough drop onto each strip. Voila! Feng shui and on-the-go throat lozenges.

6. Go buy a kitten. Do not consult your roomies about this, just go do it. Come home with kitten. When Roommates tell you that you cannot keep this kitten because you could all get expelled since pets are against school policy, tell them to fuck off.

Now, keep in mind that you must do all of these things in the middle of the night while your roommates are sleeping. Then, the next day, do not mention any of these things you have done. Just act like nothing happened. Nonchalantly grab a cough drop off of the milk in the fridge, don't even look at the scarecrow jacking off, and continue to change your new kitten's litter box. It's much more satisfying that way, I assure you.

Will Work For Beer

There I stood, surrounded. I looked to the right; it was there. I looked to the left; it was there. An anonymous male walked by me, and then it was there. On my shirt. On my shoes. Suddenly in my hand. Suddenly in both hands. It was there.

Beer.

There I remained standing. There I continued to look around me. They were everywhere. They were coming in. They were going out. They were right in front of me. They were in my peripheral vision. They were unavoidable.

Polos.

I think we all know where one can find beer and polos uniting together into one, one big Polo-Beer-ConCOCKtion...

Frat Parties.

I'm finally growing up! I'm finally a woman! I finally know what it feels like to get hit on by a guy wearing an upside down visor! Natasha's First Frat Party. That's right, moments that will go down in history need to be capitalized. I would like to say it was "the first one of many more to come..." but now that I stop and think about it that is just not what I want to say at all.

It all started when a friend and I asked where the bathroom was.

"Second door to your right."

We open the door and start to walk in.

"Why are there urinals in the ladies' room?"

"Hello ladies..."

"AHHHHHH!"

After seeing 4 dudes taking a piss, I spend the next hour listening to drunk girls talk my ear off.

"OH MY GOD EVERYONE HERE IS SO NICE!"

Because they're drunk, you idiot.

"OH MY GOD THE FRAT BOYS HERE ARE SO NICE!"

Because they're trying to get in your pants, you idiot.

"OH MY GOD COLLEGE IS SO---"

Nice?

"NICE!"

You predictable little fucker.

I soon regretted walking away from Drunk Girl #1 when I encountered Horny Asshole #457.

"Hey, do you have any gum?"

"I got somethin' better than gum..."

OH DO YOU.

"Well I just want some gum."

"I'm telling you, I got somethin' even better than gum."

Look dude, I get it. You're talking about your penis. Big whoop. Judging by your height I would say it's more of a small whoop. Either way, I don't give a fuck.

"Yeah. Okay. Goodbye."

The worst thing about that is I see that guy EVERYWHERE now.

Then, all of a sudden, a group decision is made.

"WE'RE GOING TO ANOTHER PARTY!"

"YEAHHHHH BABYYYYY WOOOOO!"

And everyone starts leaving. I follow. Though I don't usually support blindly following hoards of wasted under aged people carrying beers down a public street, I felt it was the college thing to do.

We finally get there.

"You can't come in we're full get out of here."

"BACK TO THE OTHER PARTY!"

"YEAHHHHH BABYYYYY WOOOOO!"

Good god.

Well. That's it. No girls wrestling in pudding. (That's on Monday.) No beer pong competitions. (That's on Tuesday.) No more frat parties for me...

OKAY I ADMIT IT I HAD A REALLY FUN TIME AND DESPITE ALL THE WALKING ERECTIONS I REALLY ENJOY FRAT PARTIES AND A LOT OF THE FRAT BOYS WERE ACTUALLY REALLY COOL GUYS AND YES I'LL BE GOING BACK I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY NOW.

Confessions Part I

These are my confessions.

If that statement made any of you think of Usher, do not be ashamed. (Even though that was back in the day and you're obviously living in the past because as far as I can tell Usher's 8-pack is 8-years-old and you need to seriously move on with your life and introduce yourself to a little thing called the NOW.) But don't be ashamed.

I've decided that the easiest way to confess these is to make a list. I have changed the names, but if you were a victim of any past-mean-for-no-reason-moments that I suffered from, you know who you are. And I am deeply sorry. That is why I have chosen to broadcast these moments via internet where everyone can read and feel bad for your sorry ass and then laugh at that same ass of yours that gets sorrier by the minute, instead of just calling you up and sincerely apologizing. Because it's just not as funny when you actually mean it.

Now, before you read this, please keep in mind that I am a different person now. All of the confessions you are about to read happened in either 7th or 8th grade. These were the middle school days, the days before heartbreak and insecurity and Pre-Calculus. These were the happy days, the days you could get away with being a bitch. If you think carefully, this was around the time that the movie, "Mean Girls" came out. I was an easily influenced 14-year-old who thought Lindsay Lohan was the shit. I now realize that she has serious problems. And giant breasts on a little body.

1. Betty, I am sorry.

I am sorry for hanging out with you everyday for 2 years straight and then randomly deciding one day to tell about 12 or 13 people that the reason you were out of school with mono is because you were a lesbian. I am sorry that the 12 or 13 people I decided to tell this to were on the other side of the cafeteria when I told them. I did not know other people would hear me when I screamed it. The thought never occurred to me. I am sorry.

2. Tanya, I am sorry.

I am sorry for telling everyone that the reason you were out with mono is because you made out with Betty because you, too, were a lesbian. I do realize that I didn't even know you at the time; I just knew you had mono. I am sorry.

3. James, I am sorry.

I am sorry for walking with you that one day after Art class. I did not know you were going to ask me to be your girlfriend. I also did not know that my immediate reaction would be to start laughing in your face. I did not mean to laugh in your face. I also did not mean to continue to laugh for the next 4 minutes as you patiently waited for me to stop laughing. I am sorry that I never did stop laughing. I laugh when I'm nervous. I am sorry you eventually walked away before I stopped laughing and got a chance to say, "No." I am sorry.

4. Nicholas, I am sorry.

I am sorry that the first time we slow danced I wouldn't look at your face. I am sorry that when you asked me to please look at your face I said no. I am sorry that by keeping my head down the entire time we slow danced it seemed like I was choosing to look at your crotch instead of your face. These were not my intentions. Your crotch had not even crossed my mind. I just felt awkward looking at your face. I am sorry that I told you I felt awkward looking at your face. I am sorry.

5. Cole, I am sorry.

I am sorry that I put a bunch of bath beads in a Ziploc bag and asked you if you wanted to try this new type of fruit snack my mom got. I'm sorry you started gagging and foaming at the mouth. I'm sorry.

6. Miles, I am sorry.

I am sorry that I ever asked you to be my boyfriend. I am sorry that I tried to take matters into my own hands instead of waiting around for fucking EVER for you to ask me out when I knew you liked me back, and so I called you up and asked you myself. I'm sorry I'm impatient like that. I'm sorry that you said yes only to pretend the very next day that the conversation had never happened. I'm sorry that I got all dressed up for school the next day and walked up to you and said 'hey!' only for you to walk away and then deny being my boyfriend while I told everyone how excited I was to finally be your girlfriend. I'm sorry you're a little fucker who's gonna burn in hell for what you did to me, you sack of shit. I'm very, very sorry.

7. Natasha, I am sorry.

I'm sorry you were a TOTAL BITCH. I'm sorry.

Close Encounters of the Creeper Kind

Who knew? People come to college and they become party animals, dancing on tables and wearing outfits that make you feel uncomfortable talking to them, because no matter how hard you try not to look, all you can fucking do is look. In your head you're thinking, "Don't look don't look don't look focus focus focus hold eye contact just keep the eye contact SHIT I LOOKED okay focus focus SHIT I LOOKED AGAIN eye contact eye contact eye contact SHIT remain calm SHIT listen to what she's saying SHIT okay just count to ten one two three four PULL UP YOUR FUCKING DRESS YOU SLUT." And then they think you're a lesbian. And if you're a guy they're just thinking you're a guy. It's not fair.

Or, you become the buckle-down-study-addict, locking yourself up in your room and making love to your textbooks with the unconscious desire to make your teacher have wet dreams about you and the conscious desire to show your parents they were wrong about you flunking out, while also learning the importance of polynomials and the Alabama paradox, since, you know, THAT'LL get you laid. You ditch the contacts and grab the glasses; pajama pants become the norm, and, sure, you'll graduate with a high-paying job and a clean conscience, but what stories will you have to tell your children when they go off to college?

"Well, when I was in college, I'd chug 8 Red Bulls then sit in the library till TWO IN THE MORNING and just study. It was so crazy. Like, this one time I was on this studying high, like I felt high from reading so many words for so many hours, and I was sitting there, by myself, studying, and while I was thinking about studying, I wondered, 'How long could I study for? Could I push my limits and stay here all night? Could I do it? What would happen if I did? Would I hallucinate from lack of sleep? What would happen if I broke the world record for consecutive hours of studying?' So I was in the library, till like---"

"Zzzzzzz..."

It's just embarrassing.

But while I can put myself in neither of these categories, since I have not once been to the library and have not once passed out drunk, I have found that I have discovered a new aspect to my personality, one that I would not have ever found if it were not for college life.

I am a creeper.

Now, by "creeper," I do not mean that I follow people and fiddle with my pants or the contents inside. By "creeper," I mean more often than not I sit on my balcony looking at people. Just watch. Just stare. Just creep. Yes, I will admit to having sudden urges to chuck things at their faces; yes, I will admit that I get intense impulses to shout out profound obscenities; yes, I will admit that an average of about 17 times someone has waved at me from below, causing me to leap up out of pure joy screaming, "HEY!" only to realize they were greeting the people who live below me who are also always on their balcony, fellow creepers of my kind. But us creepers cannot join together, that's the problem with creeping. It is not a social gathering; it is not something one can openly discuss. Creeping comes from within, and it can be a competitive hobby at that.

"Hello."

I nonchalantly say from my balcony to the passerby below.

"Hello hello."

Fellow Creeper from below me thinks that by saying what I just said but doubling it in number, he is creeping in a more advanced fashion than I, when really he is just mooching off of my CreepEE.

"I saw him FIRST, you douche!"

The benefit of having the balcony above Fellow Creeper is that he cannot see me as I call him a douche.

"Well I've been creeping on him for the past THREE HOURS, you Creepabee!"

"Creepabee" is slang for "creeper wannabe." It's a creeper thing, you wouldn't get it.

"Wait! Here comes another victim!"

"HEY!"

"HEY HEY!"

"HEY YOU!"

"NO SAY HEY TO ME!"

"SAY HEY TO ME FIRST!"

"SHUT UP I'M ABOVE YOU I HAVE THIRD BALCONY RIGHTS!"

"YOU JUST MADE THAT UP, YOU CREEPER!"

"YOU HYPOCRITE!"

"LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE SHE'S GONE!"

"HERE COMES ANOTHER!"

The creeping never ends. That's what is so addicting about it. There's never an "off day" in the occupation of Creeping. Though some are better at it than others (practice does in fact make perfect), anyone can do it. All you need are a few simple things:

1. eyeballs

This is for beginners. Once you become intermediate to advanced, you may resort to binoculars.

2. vocal chords

The longer you creep, the more bored you become with a simple shout-out. Try mixing up the volume of your voice, or maybe even the tone. If you are able, you may even try different accents or dialects. For example, "Top of the morning to ya, lassie!" or "Hakuna Matata!"

3. a middle finger

Not everyone enjoys being creeped on, shouted at, or stared down. In case you come across these, shall we say, "normal" ladies and/or gents (that's right, you can creep two, three, maybe even four at a time!), you may need to resort to your center phalangee, since throwing things at people may cause harm or your own personal court case. Therefore, just violently extend your middle finger in a thrustful manner, and voila! Anger is gone and you look even more like a creeper!

Do not judge me until you've tried it. Everyone creeps, I'm just admitting to it. Hitchcock obviously had thoughts about it, he just hired James Stewart to do it for him. Look, I can't help it if my creeping can't be justified because I happen to see a man murdering someone and then I become a hero and my creeping is forgotten. Not everyone is as lucky in their creeping. All I'm saying is, to creep or not to creep? It's not even a question. To creep is obviously the way to go.