Say Hello To The Nineteen-Year-Old

I'm 19 now. I’ve been 19 for awhile, now, yes, but it took me a few months of adjusting to this new chapter of my life before I could fully analyze it. Getting older means growing more responsible. It means it's time to get my shit together. No longer can I choose between two things by merely stating that my daddy had a donkey (inky binky bonkey); no longer can I laugh until I cry at fat people falling off of things (Scarlet takes a tumble? Anyone? Anyone?); no longer can I consider "lip syncing" to be a talent (shout out to all you mothers of the world: having your 6-year-old daughter lip-sync "Genie In A Bottle" in the school talent show is NOT "cute"); no longer can I make vows to only marry a werewolf (which is really quite a shame because having a vow like that buys me a lot of time in that department); no longer can I play the Game of Life and pull the tiny plastic people out of my car and run over them, thinking it's just hilarious that I'm choosing to run over my kids with my car, because that shit is no laughing matter. I'm 19 now and need to realize that some people really do pull their kids out of their car and run over them on purpose. And then their husband after that. And then they pick up 500,000 dollars for somehow finding time to invent an ice cream flavor while they were running over their family. Crazy what people do these days.

Being a mere year from starting the decade that will be known as "my 20's," I can no longer tell people the Loch Ness Monster is real and expect them to believe me (it's real. google that shit. don't make fun of me. Nessie is real and I KNOW it. you don't believe me, do you? god damn you. you're lucky I'm 19 now and don't give a SHIT what you think. but seriously. google it. google it now. no, don't google it now. read my blog now. google it later.); no longer can I run around my house naked. (this became a no-no years ago, I'm not referring to this activity as something I have done recently, in my teenage years, I'm talking about my baby years. sure they were a couple decades ago but they count too and oh how I do miss them).

But now that holding hands is no longer considered "second base" and jamming out to the Spice Girls has become something I must do in secret, what CAN I do at 19? What does the age of 19 bring exactly?

NOT SHIT.

And 20? What about 20?

NOT SHIT.

21? 21, perhaps?

LOTS OF SHIT.

But I'm not 21. I'm not even 2o. I'm not even 19 AND A HALF. I'm just 19. Though it's quite common to celebrate the fact that you've become a whole year closer to dying, it's not nearly as fun when you're at an age like nineteen. Nineteen is boring. Nineteen is lame. There's nothing new I can do; I can just keep reminding myself that I'm now that much closer to being DEAD. Awesome.

But then again, maybe being in my 20’s isn’t going to be as great as I imagine it to be; maybe it’s the whole “the grass is greener on the the side” ordeal. Will bars really be that great? Not according to the last person I had this discussion with.

“Man I went to the bar last night and, like, at this bar I go to, if you buy a shot the bartender will pour it out of her mouth into yours, and it’s really hot. So last night one of the bartenders came up to me and asked me to buy a shot, and I said, ‘Only if you pour it into my mouth,’ and she said, ‘How about I let you suck my nipples instead?’ and man it was so awesome I drank that shot and then started sucking on that bitch’s tit, and then my buddy Joe joined in and sucked on the other one, and we were both just suckin’ on that bitch’s tits and it was so fucking awesome!”

Yeah. Don’t know if I care that much about going to bars anymore. I mean I have always wanted to see a girl my age breastfeed two grown men while in public, but I would also become incredibly envious of the self-respect that girl has and wish that I, too, could be confident enough in myself to allow two drunk strangers to put their lips around my nipples.

BUT, I will enjoy getting older and not being GROUNDED; not getting my car taken away and having to have my younger sister CHAUFFEUR me around everywhere which in some situations just doesn’t quite work out that well; and it’s annoying enough because I never feel comfortable in the passenger seat...it’s too open and wide and I don’t know what the hell to do with my hands.

Nineteen really doesn’t bring anything to the table. Not one thing. I even googled the benefits of being 19, and you know what I found? I found the benefits of being 17, the benefits of being 18, and the benefits of being 21. They completely skipped over the age of 19 and google completely IGNORED my request. Besides, those sites didn’t help much, either. One thing I read said that the great thing about turning 18 is that you can buy alcohol and sell it to minors. Um yeah, buddy. Good luck with THAT one.

So basically I must wait 2 more years until I have total freedom. (Unless I want to rent a car. Then I‘ll have to wait until I’m 25. The purpose of that law is still unknown to me. I can get shitfaced drunk but not drive a rented car? Wait...that law is starting to make more sense now...God dammit I wish I lived in Europe.) And since I have just now realized that being 19 doesn’t mean SHIT, I think I’ll continue on my way of running over my little plastic children with my little plastic Buick, and laugh hysterically at obese people in physical pain, and still pretend like there is some deep, hidden meaning in the line, ‘All I really want is a zigga-zag-ah.’ Well now, this blog post has come to its conclusion, and I think we both know what that means. (Go google the Loch Ness Monster. NOW.)

Doo-Dad's and Hoo-Ha's

I don't really know how to break into the topic of today. I could give you clues, perhaps?

...it rhymes with born...

Oh, fuck it. I’m too impatient for this shit.

PORN, PEOPLE. I'M GOING TO TALK ABOUT PORN.

What brings this up today is that I have this website that shows me how people get to my blog each day. Whether it be through facebook, or blogger, or google. Not only does it show me if someone found my blog on google, it shows me what they typed in that brought them to my site. And there are some weird mother fuckers out there. I just hate to disappoint the guy who clicked on my blog when really what he was looking for were "naked damsel pics," or the other guy who was dying to see a "naked damsel getting fucked." I hope they eventually find what they're looking for. Sick bastards.

Now, I don't have much to say about porn, really. Because I've never watched it. And yes, that is the truth. I don't know why anyone would not believe me when I say I have never sat at my computer and watched videos of people fucking each other, because in my personal opinion I don't seem like the type who would get off on strangers filling each other's holes, but just to clarify, I HAVE NEVER WATCHED PORN. Of course I could be lying and watching it this very second, as I talk about not watching it; I could have naked people all over my screen right now, I could have zoomed in on all their special doo-dads and hoo-ha's and could be holding a magnifying glass up to these aforementioned gonads and blah-blee's and you would never know. You would have absolutely no idea. But I don't. So case closed.

I know many people do, yes, enjoy porn, and there is nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong with absolutely loving whatever suits your fancy. And yes, I assume anyone who watches porn on a regular basis loves it, and is not just "fond" of it, because if you do something every single day it's not just because you think it's "alright," it means you think it's AWESOME. Which is fine. To each his own.

(When I say you must love the things you do everyday, I'm not talking about things like going to the bathroom. You must do that. You don't have a choice. Well, technically, you do have a choice but it would be gross if you chose not to. The point is I'm not generalizing here; obviously people don't LOVE going to the bathroom. But then again...we do choose to...when we easily could choose to NOT...do we love it? You know what nevermind people's bowel patterns are completely irrelevant to porn.)

(...well, usually. they SHOULD be anyway. but, like I said, to each his own.)

That's not the problem. The problem is the people who come up with the ideas for porn. I'm not even referring to the completely abstract and bizarre ones, like a woman fucking a horse. Because first of all, I heard that a horse's penis is 4 feet long and if you think about it, that's the size of a FIRST GRADER. I seriously doubt a woman could fit a FIRST GRADER in that hole...and if she could then we have bigger problems than her sexual preferences. Like what else has been in there, for instance. What the fuck has stretched it out THAT MUCH. Which brings me to my second point of SICK. And my third point of there's no way it's 4 feet long because I've seen many horses and I'm pretty sure I would have noticed a 4-foot-long dick. Because that's just not something that could easily be hid. Unless it's in that woman's elastic band of a vagina, which brings me back to my second point of SICK.

But that's not what I'm talking about here. I'm talking about your everyday, run-of-the-mill, average porn, the same porn my roommate and I looked up on her phone one day.

(A-HA! Thought you caught me, didn't you? Well you didn't. We didn't watch said porn, we simply read the titles, which trust me, are entertaining all on their own.)

When reading these titles aloud, I tried to imagine what would persuade me to click on that specific title, with oh so many to choose from! What oh WHAT will I choose when I have the bountiful not to mention creative genres of:

Kung-Fu-Fucking

I don’t know who’s idea it was to take a 1974 song with lines such as, “They were funky men from funky Chinatown,” and thought immediately of people having hot, steamy sex that many viewers would enjoy, as well. I don’t even really know what the word, ‘funky’ actually means. I imagine this porno would involve many Asian men all getting in on with each other, ferociously ripping off one another’s black belts and judo-flopping their dicks all over the place, hitting each other in the eyeballs and such while waving around chopsticks (more like chopdicks), swirling around nunchucks (more like numb butts), and screaming (more like creaming), “Want some lo mein with my DICK?” (Mr. Miyagi would probably be in there somewhere, as well, but not old and wise as we all know him, but old and NAKED. Break me off a piece of DAT ass!)

I May Be A Sucky Mom But I Have Great Tits!

A mom? With great tits? Sweet, dude! Breastfeed some of your kids, PLEASE. God that would turn me on so hard. Just one of ‘em. Just show ONE CHILD sucking on your nipple to get milk to stay alive, PLEASE. Or maybe YOU could drink your own milk. From your OWN nipple. PLEASE OH PLEASE.

See Jan Cum Good When Find Cock

“Find” cock? I’m pretty sure sex isn’t supposed to be a game of hide and seek. (Hide and Fuck? Could be the title of my directing debut...) I’m not sure who would cast someone in a porno who’s cock is difficult to find. Perhaps it’s the suspense. You watch “Jan” look for this guy’s cock until you just can’t take it anymore, and then, alas! She finds the cock! Hurray for Jan! Now she cum good! That’s another thing---what’s with the grammar? A Bob Book gone perverse.

I wish I had more titles to offer you, but I forgot most due to pure shock and I don’t plan on looking up some porn on my own time, SORRY, so I’ll have to leave you with these three, which hopefully will keep you going for days. Or, if you’re like me, you’ll just have the song “Kung-Fu Fighting” stuck in your head all week, but with, of course, the word, “fucking” in place of “fighting.” It’s actually quite a catchy tune, in my opinion. But, to each his own.

I'm Insane Here's Why

Seeing a psychiatrist is not how it is portrayed in the movies. Thank god.

There's something incredibly awkward about lying down as you spill out your emotions to a stranger. I'm not talking about the emotions-spill that's awkward; I'm talking about the lying down part. I don't like lying down in front of people. Come on. It's weird and you know it. I can't really explain here. So I'm not going to.

...okay, I'll try.

When you lie down, it's like anyone could pounce on you at any second. Which makes you feel very afraid. And your face dips down into your neck giving you double chins. Which makes you feel very self-conscious. And large. Which makes you wonder if any skinny people are named "Marge," because that's just not a name for a small person. And you don't know what to do with your legs. If you cross them woman-style, your leg will fall asleep; if you cross them man-style, your foot will fall asleep; and if you don't cross them at all, you'll just look odd. And this whole time you're contemplating what the hell you should do with your legs, you're wondering if your shrink can tell that you're indecisive about how to position your own body when simply lying down, and then they will most likely analyze you on your final decision, which you know because as you're just lying there, not even saying anything, just thinking about your legs, they'll start vigorously writing something down. Which makes you feel paranoid.

"Patient has crossed legs in a feminine manner...could possibly be showing their insecurity of the double chins that appeared once they lied down, and so they believe they must balance out the chins by the seductive pose of crossing their legs...or could possibly have to urinate quite badly but are too timid and shy to ask since they were abused as a child and so they are trying to hold in the urine as best they can..."

"Patient has crossed legs in a manly manner...could possibly be trying to overcompensate for the father figure they never had, and so they must look manly at all times...or could be a potential sex addict and must always have a nice view of their crotch area...most likely mentally preparing it for the sex to come by getting to discreetly catch their own glimpse of it whenever they wish..."

"Patient has not crossed legs...instead they are side by side, straight forward on the couch

...looks very odd...I do not know what to think of this...except how odd it looks..."

But it's not like that. Thank god.

Today I saw a psychiatrist and I got to sit up like a normal person. Which is pretty ironic that I felt very normal as I sat in a shrink's office. I sporadically make appointments with her to talk about my insomnia, since according to my doctor, insomnia is a reason to see a shrink. I really don't mind it at all; she's a very nice woman who sincerely listens to me and I enjoy getting to talk about whatever I want. With other people, you have to "take turns" on talking. It's polite. You vent your thoughts; they vent theirs. But NOT with a psychiatrist! All the attention is on ME! I get to feel self-centered without even feeling GUILTY about it! CHEERS TO SELFISHNESS! (This must be why many celebrities see shrinks.)

However, when I DO go, I must be very aware that one slip of the tongue could deem me "insane." This is the problem with the shrink-patient relationship. We, the patients, are aware that we're out of our minds, but do not want someone else to tell us so, and therefore we keep certain thoughts to ourselves. Lucky for you, I'm tired of holding these in and have compiled a list of said thoughts that just cannot be held in any longer. I have titled this list:

I'm Insane Here's Why

Reason #1---I've been thinking about rubber duckies a lot lately. Not really thinking about them, more of a random mental image of a rubber ducky will flash into my mind. Like today, for instance. I was driving in my car. Jamming out to some Weezer. And a rubber ducky popped into my head. (Yellow, of course.) And I thought to myself that rubber duckies don't really have anything to do with someone's name being Jonas, and therefore I must be going crazy.

Reason #2---Unlike every other young woman in the world, I do not dream of having babies. I dream of killing babies. They scare me. They have giant heads and those heads are bald.

Reason#3---I have a crush...

...on Jack Nicholson.

He's not so young anymore, I know...

...and sometimes he forgets to shave certain spots...

...and sometimes people make fun of him...

...but no matter what, I still love him for who he is.

GET AWAY FROM MY MAN YOU LITTLE WHORE.

Reason #4---Three bald men sitting in a row is a sign of good luck. I figured this out years ago but have never told anyone.

Reason #5---I constantly lose my keys. This is normal, I know, and not insane. The thing is, I always put them in my pockets. So I shouldn't lose them at all. And when I lose them, I always check my pockets. So I shouldn't be looking for them at all. But they're never in my pockets until the 14th time I check those pockets. We're talking about the same pockets I've been checking this whole time, not different pockets. The same pockets. So basically, it takes 13 times of checking in my pockets to find my keys suddenly in my pockets on the 14th try. And I don't know who's putting them there but I wish you'd stop because reaching in and out of your pockets 14 times is quite annoying, not to mention bad for the skin.

I didn't tell my psychiatrist any of these things, of course, so she wouldn't diagnose me as a nutjob. I just told her about school...and not sleeping...and my plan for improving my work ethic...and the whole time I thought it was going very well. Until my father came in to hear her opinion on my well-being.

"Ha! Well, Natasha's dad, I'm not sure what to tell you; your daughter is VERY complicated."

I should've told her about the rubber duckies.

A Particular Douche Bag's Windshield

My signal is on. I’ve been driving around this parking lot for as long as it took me to reach a height of 5 feet (which took longer than most, I assure you.), and finally a spot opens up. I don’t even care this spot is as far from the mall as the walk I took the other day to the “nearby” gas station to my house (which is far, I assure you.), or that the two cars beside it have left me space as slim as my chances of ever finding my abundant collection of tube socks that went missing months ago (which are slim chances, I assure you.) I am just utterly ecstatic that I have found a spot, hence my signal being on. (I believe putting your signal on for a parking spot is of the upmost nerdiness, since obviously if you’re sitting there in your car by a spot someone is pulling out of, you plan on parking there. Unless you’re just being an asshole and blocking traffic for the hell of it.) The car finally pulls out, and as I’m turning in...

WAM BAM THANK YOU MA’AM!

Douche Bag In A Mini Van whips on into it, as if it was his the whole time. As if I didn’t have my signal on. As if I hadn’t basically bought that spot by blinking my left headlight at it for a good amount of seconds. Now, I don’t have Road Rage, but I do have Parking Lot Rage. And that rage is fierce.

“FUCK. YOU. ASS. HOLE.”

(I do realize that he cannot hear me, so I state this slowly so he can lipread my profanity, in hopes that me, the 19-year-old girl in a Volvo, will intimidate the 40-year-old man who’s ego is big enough to drive a mini van and have the nerve to act like he owns the place.)

(I also have the courtesy to erect my middle phalange upwards while keeping the other four down in case he didn’t quite get the message.)

Douche Bag In A Mini Van finds this just hilarious and in retaliation, blows me a kiss. How sweet of him.

I thought of all the things I could do that would illustrate pure vengeance. Like plant dozens of dildos on his windshield so when he returns to his car everyone in the crowded parking lot will see him and he will become truly embarrassed. The problem with that is that I do not own dozens of dildos. Or one, for that matter.

I could also take a baseball bat and knock in all his windows, but I’m 19 now and jail comes into play with acts of violence. Besides, that’s completely unoriginal.

I could leave a love letter to him on the outside of his wife’s window in hopes of ruining their marriage just in time for the holidays. (Remember this Christmas, asshole?!) But judging on the way his stomach hides his entire crotch and upper-thigh area, I doubt his wife would believe the letter was legit. Or that she’d even give a shit.

I decided it best to make peace. Not really because I am a peaceful person, moreso because I had to take a piss.

I could piss on his car...

No no no. Peace is best. ("Peace, not piss!" That's what I always say!) Besides, nothing really could top the last time I had Parking Lot Rage. Now that was something worth telling the grandkids about.

So I’m in the mother fucking Green Hills Mall parking lot. (See? I get Parking Lot Rage just talking about them. I apologize.) So I’m in the nice, clean, security-guard patrolled out the ass Green Hills Mall parking lot. And again, my signal is on. (Now that I said how nerdy it was to do that, I’m making it seem like I do that often. Really, I don’t. Really. Like, really. Please believe me?) LOOK. The signal was ON because once AGAIN I had been looking for one fucking spot for way too long a time. My gas tank went from full to empty, THAT’S how long. (Exaggeration? Perhaps. But that’s beside the point.) So, I start to pull in. I’m happy, I’m smiling, I’ve never been this giddy in my life! And some FUCKING FUCKER FUCK zooms in out of nowhere, and by “zoomed” I mean the kinda zoom one would imagine upon hearing the word “zoom.” Like the Road Runner. Except this road runner was more of a parking lot fucker. And he was in a pink polo. (No offense to pink polos; it’s just that this minute detail comes into play later.)

I’m in shock. And I’m in a rage. When you are in both of these things, it is never a good feeling. And it is common to act irrational. So I went ahead and did a little zooming myself down the lane, through the neighbor lane, and back to the lane where Pink Dick (okay, maybe that’s not the best nickname for him), where Big Dick (okay maybe that’s not the best one, either), where Fat Dick (you know, ‘dick’ is a really difficult insult to put an adjective in front of without sounding perverse) where Giant Jerk (see? but that just sounds childish. there’s something much more mature about calling someone a sex organ when you are angry at them). WHATEVER. Where THAT GUY was getting out of his fucking red piece of shit car. I roll down my window.

“THANK YOU. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR TAKING THAT SPOT I WAS OBVIOUSLY WAITING FOR YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.”

“Why, you’re welcome!”

What is it with men not being intimidated by me? What’s with the cutesy responses to my rage? Why am I the one who looks stupid? What do I say to that?

“YEAH...PINK POLO...PREPPY!”

I blame this on the Parking Lot Rage. I wasn’t in my right mind. It’s not my fault I went from screaming “fuck you” to “pink polo preppy” within seconds. It was a bad moment in my life and I’m trying to move on from it.

So what to do now? I may “make peace” now, but then? Then? When I was merely eighteen years old? That was when anger was a feeling that ought to be pushed to its fullest potential.

Now, I have not mentioned the fact that my sister was in the car with me this whole time. I was hoping that by the time I got to this point in the story I would feel like lying and not giving a fuck about it, but I just can’t do it. I’m going to have to give her the credit for the next thing that was stated.

“Let’s get chocolate Frosty’s.”

Now. You may be wondering why I feel such a strong urge to take all the credit for the idea to buy milkshakes. You see, these milkshakes were not meant to be put in our stomachs. They were meant to be put on a particular douche bag’s windshield.

The next few chain of events were a blur. Drive through Wendy’s. Order two chocolate Frosty’s. No, we don’t need sauce. We’re getting Frosty’s. Head back to the mall. Find fuckwad’s car. Put my car in park. Sit there for a minute. Are we really going to do this? Fuck yeah we are. Jump out of the car. Look around for witnesses. Yeah, plenty of witness. But plenty of Frosty to be put on a windshield. Pour Frosty’s onto windshield. Roll up sleeves. Put hands on windshield. Smear Frosty all over windshield. Cover entire surface. Write something in it? ‘Why, you’re welcome?’ See secutiry guard coming by. No time for extreme wit. Jump back into car. Wipe hands on steering wheel. Regret wiping hands on steering wheel. Drive away. Blast the music. Feel bad ass. Feel incredibly bad ass.

I’ve gone from Chocolate Frosty Vengeance to Middle Finger Vengeance. I’ve joined the masses. I’ve resorted to everyone else’s way of expressing anger. Someone please save me. Or better yet, stay away from my fucking parking spot when my fucking signal is on. You never know when I’ll find that old Natasha again, and you could be that particular douche bag with that now-delicious windshield.

Beauty Pageant Wannabe

I have recently grown a great deal of respect for young women who compete in beauty pageants. And no, I'm not being sarcastic. Because, really, they get tricked right from the get-go. They get told they're going to compete in a BEAUTY pageant, and yet they get asked question after question after question and one wrong answer could snatch that glittery crown they've been working their whole lives for from them FOREVER. What do questions about life have to do with the shape of your thighs? This isn't a BRAIN pageant! This isn't a WIT pageant! This isn't an I HAVE A FUTURE AHEAD OF ME pageant! It's a beauty pageant. It should be quite simple, really. Stand there. Look good. Look blonde. And a bunch of creeps will stare at you for quite some time and then pick the one who's least likely to take naked pictures of herself the next time she gets shitfaced.

Don't believe me? You think it's just a contest full of pretty girls who knew they could do more with their lives than work at McDonald's? How dare you. They CAN do more than turn burgers! They can turn in a swimsuit. They can turn in evening wear. And they can turn me into a Beauty Pageant Wannabe! I'll have to start practicing now! And I can use these sample pageant questions I found online to do it!

And yes, these questions are legit. As in real-life beauty pageant questions. I've gone ahead and answered them (for practice, of course) but honestly these questions are amusing all on their own.

Tell us something about yourself.

Well...my name is Natasha Ferrier...I have a blog...I really like writing on it...

What are your hobbies?

Umm...writing on my blog...which I like...I just told you that.

What do you think can be done to improve your smile?

What? Is there something wrong with my smile? I mean, not that I think it's perfect, I just wasn't expecting you to ask me to improve it...I know I only have one dimple and I guess that's kinda weird but I don't really know how I would fix that...that was kind of a dick thing of you to say, though. Now I'm all self-conscious...

Do you have a boyfriend?

Is this a trick question? Is there a right and wrong answer to this? Does this really effect my chances of staying in this pageant?

Do you think HIV patients have the right to lead a normal life?

No. I think we should lock them all up in a cage and feed them scraps of lard. JUST KIDDING! Uh yeah. I mean I've never really thought about it. I mean what do you mean "normal life?" Because I wouldn't want them going around and having sex with a bunch of people and shit...I mean I, personally don't want AIDS but maybe that's just me...

How do you think you can help in the prevention of STD'S and AIDS?

What? Become a scientist? I don't fuckin' know! Throw condoms at people whenever I'm in a public place? I mean what the hell does that have to do with anything?

What would life after rape be like?

There would be no life. I'd slit my wrists. JUST KIDDING! I mean how am I supposed to respond to that? Life would be fucking awesome after rape? If only I could be raped on a daily basis? Why the fuck are you asking me that? Is that a round I'm supposed to go through? Get raped? FUCK IS IT?

What is your take on one-night stands?

Okay come on now. You think any girl competing in this contest is going to say, 'Oh, how I love them! One-night stands are my favorite kinda stands!' and expect to win the pageant? Not unless she's dumb as FUCK. Oh wait...I forgot where we were...

What would you do if your boyfriend left you?

This contest is incredibly sexist. I'd go on with my fucking life, THAT'S what I'd do. I mean shit.

What would be your logo on a T-shirt?

Probably something like, 'DON'T YOU DARE LOOK AT MY BREASTS.' Just kidding! God dammit I'm funny. Fuck. This isn't a Funny Pageant. It's a Beauty Pageant. If I were to were to have something written across my tits so everyone would look and then read it...uhhhh...'WE ARE BEAUTIFUL?'

Do you read?

No. Not ever. I don't know how I passed high school. YES I READ.

"Good girls go to Heaven, bad girls go everywhere." Comment.

I mean if bad girls go everywhere...wouldn't that include Heaven, as well? I'd much rather get to make a few stops at some stores and stuff then go to Heaven, than only be allowed to go to just Heaven...

What can women learn from men?

You think if men had a beauty pageant, they'd be asked what they can learn from women? HELL NO! I'm not answering that question you sexist fuck.

Other than this pageant, what is the greatest challenge in your life?

Shit man. I was about to say the greatest challenge in my entire life is competing in this beauty contest. I'm so upset you ruled that option out.

Tell me something that will make me remember you.

FUCK YOU.

Oh yeah. I'm just a hair color away from being the next Miss America.