Dear Readers,
As Al Pacino once said as part of the only string of words in the entire lexicon of the English language that could possibly motivate a personal to physically climb out of hell (hopefully Hitler has never heard it. Get it?): "when you get old in life, things get taken from you..that’s just part of life." I look back at this moment, on my 28th birthday, at the past 2.8 decades of my existence and realize how incredibly simple, and yet salient, that observation is. Reflecting on my past I am stuck thinking about all of the things that have been taken from my grasp throughout my time on this planet, things that, due to me not being Liam Neeson’s daughter, I can never get back. Naptime. Being given free juice boxes during school. Being under the weight limit to legally test ride a Segway. My innocence.

Dear Readers,
As all of you unquestionably know—both because you have read everything I’ve ever written and because you’ve attempted to murder yourself while reading everything I’ve written due to your realization that you have devoted so much time to digesting and comprehending my rather shallow and fairly obvious life observations that you’ve therefore been force to neglect your family, your health, your dog, and anything or anyone that has ever loved you—I tend to write really, really, really, ridiculous long blog posts that are, at their very core, about absolutely nothing of value or consequence whatsoever. Yeah, I admit it: I write super lengthy and pedantic posts. And, no matter what you may think of my writing mannerisms or style, I am not apologizing for it.

Dear Readers,
As all of us should know—both because all 7 of you are the exact same age as me, meaning that you share a birthday with luminaries such as Harry Potter and Wesley Snipes, and because you all have the exact same amount of money as I do, meaning that your credit card was once declined at a TGI Fridays while you were trying to buy a woman a Pink Punk Cosmo and you, rightfully, gave up ever attempting to speak to another human being in public ever again—the rapper 50 Cent is one baller ace M’F’er.

That’s why you can find him in the club with a bottle full of bub. That’s why he made a trillion dollars off of Vitamin Water even though no one, to my knowledge, has made the decision to physically purchase a bottle of Vitamin Water ever. That’s why 50 Cent’s body is legitimately 100% muscle even though he eats nothing but donuts and freshly churned cow butter. 50 Cent’s digestive system turns jelly donuts and butter into Muscle Milk. 50 Cent is, functionally speaking, the perfect human being.

Dear Readers,
As all of you assuredly know—more than likely due to the fact that I share every thought I’ve ever had with each of you on the Internet via some format that will one day assure that I will never, ever get hired by a Chick-Fil-A franchise anywhere in the world—there are a lot of things I hate. Racism. Vegetables. Mondays. Old people. Young people. In-shape people. Jump ropes (not the activity, the object). Denim. Murderers. Paper. Rodents. Sobriety. Myself, clearly. Anything that was invented on this Earth before July 4, 1776 (sorry Jesus).

Running. I hate running first. I hate running last. I hate running most of all. The entire activity, moving fast not because you need to be somewhere quickly but because, I don’t know, God gave you the ability to move fairly rapidly on your feet and by choosing not to do so you are basically slapping said God in the face I guess, just makes no sense to me. Hey I have a free 5 hours on a Sunday, how should I spend it? Eating copious amounts of bean burritos? Sleeping for 19 hours of the day instead of the Sunday usual of 14? Watching NCIS: Los Angeles and wondering why there is so much naval related crime in and around the Getty Art Museum? Or run for 26.2 miles while every neuron in your brain tells you that they would be having more fun if you decided to murder yourself?

Dear Readers
As all of you should unequivocally know—primarily because you share my views on everything in the world and prove that support by retweeting every single word I have ever shared about Extreme Weight Loss Home Edition on the Interwebs—Stan Kroenke is my least favorite person on Earth. This is a hard thing to put into context because Stan Kroenke is not, in the grand scheme of things, the worst man alive. This is a difficult thought to quantify because Stan Kroenke is far from the most evil human in existence. This is a impossible opinion to visually prove because, in spite of the obvious toupee that he probably doesn’t even bother to wear to Major League Lacrosse games, Stan Kroenke is not the ugliest fellow that I have ever laid eyes on. Even Stan Kroenke’s suits, while they do look like they were crafted by an 87-year-old blind man with severe Parkinson’s disease, would not be the most horrendous thing showcased on this season of Project Runway.