Jewish grandmothers...

10:00 am
I’m woken up the sound of knocking. Incessant, loud knocking on my apartment door that could only mean one thing - it’s my grandmother. The loud noise of her knuckles rapping against the wood can be distinguished from anyone else. Her knock yells, “I’m important. And I’m not waiting.”
I open the door, dressed in ratty boxers and an old tank top.
Her sharp eyes take me in judgingly. She, of course, is dressed in a dark red pantsuit and made up perfectly, not a wrinkle in sight. At 78 years old, she makes me look like a slob.
It’s then that my eyes are drawn to the bright orange shopping bags at her feet. She sees my eyes glaze over, and starts in on me -
“PAULA. YOU HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN IT YET.”
If anything can make me weak in the knees, it’s not the sight of a Jewish boy, or even the small of half priced Lancome cosmetics. It’s the knowledge that my Jewish grandmother has made yet another purchase from Big Bertha. Big Bertha, to bring you up to speed, is a huge superstore that specializes in selling absolute crap to Jewish people that think they’re getting a good deal. Their Jewish senses tingle when they come within 5 feet of the store - bright displays that advertise 20 cent (probably broken) flashlights, 25 cent underwear that feels like it’s made of paper, and 30 cent picture frames that crack when you touch them. Simply put, it’s Jewish logic - do you need it? No. But how can you resist it when it’s so cheap?! It’s Jewish grandmothers like my own that have kept Big Bertha in business from the day the first Jew crossed into Brooklyn waters.
“Grandmother, I’m sure whatever you have, I don’t need it. In fact, I will refund you whatever money you spent on the ridiculous shenanigan that’s -”
“PAULA. YOU HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN IT YET.”
“Grandma,” I take a different approach, “I appreciate that you’re so kind as to think of me. And really, I’m sure it’s very beautiful! In fact, don’t you think it’s even more suited for ..“ My eyes dart around my apartment nervously before landing on my little sister, who’s doing her homework on the living room couch,“…Your kind and compassionate granddaughter, Esther?”
Esther, the kind and compassionate granddaughter, shoots me a look that could melt the face off a snowman.
“Paula, don’t be silly,” she lowers her voice a little, “Esther KNOWS that YOU’RE my favorite granddaughter.”
Fuck. Cornered by my own amazingness. Before I could refuse whatever horror my grandmother purchased this time, - last time, it was a pair of bright green socks (15 cents!) and the time before that, a bottle of highlighter yellow nail polish (30 cents!) - she opens the bag and brings out something even I was ill-prepared for.
Ladies and gentlemen, let me compose a quick list of things you do NOT want your Jewish grandmother to bring out of her vermillion orange bag.
Number 3 is a pair of bright green socks.
Number 2 is a cracked bottle of highlighter yellow nail polish.
And topping the list, at number one?
A bathing suit featuring a leopard print…in Big Bertha’s signature colors, vermillion orange and puke green.
I feel my face turning the latter color, just as my grandmother pulls something even more atrocious from her own bag.
In case you were wondering, what's can even come close to being worse than an orange and green leopard print bathing suit?
Two orange and green leopard print bathing suits.
“TA-DA!” she shrieks, “WE CAN MATCH!”
And that is how I know I have been tricked, once more, by my evil Jewish grandmother.
“Grandmother,” I say in a very quiet voice that I save for occasions when I am faced with life or death situations, “I…I…”
I should have known to stop, right then and there. Jewish grandmothers, particularly Russian ones, are famous for their art of deception. That, and their matzo ball soup.
Right in front of me, my grandmother ‘s composure changes from a fierce lioness in a pantsuit to an orphaned puppy in rags.
“Paula,” she tells me in a sad, tiny voice, “I am an old woman. I don’t have much longer to live. All I’m asking of you is that you do this one small favor for me. For your grandmother. Who changed your diapers countless times for you when you were younger. Who walked a mile to pick you up from school every day for 4 years. Who just paid for your summer vacation. All I’m asking is that you and I wear matching bathing suits to the YMCA…” Her gaze drops to the floor and her lip quivers. She could put a bratty six year old’s puppy eyes to shame.
“I .. I…” My response is lost as I make eye contact with her quivering lips.

And that’s how I came to be where I am now, staring sadly at the bright orange bathing suit that is currently hanging limply on a velvet hanger in the back of my closet.

SuperJew Girl gets the Boy.

Assignment: Create a Superhero alterego based loosely on your own life.

Superjew Girl’s quest to find a nice Jewish Boy
Superjew awoke to the buzzing of her loud, obnoxious alarm clock.
“Shut up, fershtinkiner,” she screeched, swapping at it. With a loud yawn, she got out of bed and padded to the bathroom, scrutinizing the reflection that greeted her. Her tight brown curls were matted down on the side of her head that she had slept on, and there was a pimple on the right side of her grandiose nose. She swept some foundation on and said a quick prayer to Adonai that, with all the amazing scientific discoveries being made on a daily basis, somebody would figure out a way to make schnoz appear smaller than it was. Superjew Girl, or SG for short, was positive that Jewish people all over the world would be very thankful for this miraculous invention. With one last look in the mirror, SG made her way to the kitchen for breakfast.
“Ay, SG,” her mother said, serving her an omelet, “If only you were a berryer like your sister, I wouldn’t have to make you breakfast. How are you going to marry a nice jewish boy when you can’t even make yourself a meal? He will leave you for a good jewish woman who will make him latkes at 2 in the morning. Even nudniks have a better chance at a marriage than you. Oy, vey. What am I going to do with you?”
As her mother prattled on, SG quickly scarfed down the omelet. She loved to argue, but not with her mother. The woman had 30 more years of practice, and SG had witnessed firsthand how her mother had worn down her father on many an occasion with her nagging. Sheesh, it was like nagging was her mother’s superpower.“Now, don’t forget to call me the moment you get on the train, the moment you get off the train, as soon as you get back the scores on your math test, right after you take your history test, right before you buy your lunch, after you’ve eaten your lunch, as soon as you finish the school day, as soon as Jewish Club ends, as soon as you’ve used the bathroom, as soon as you get outside school, and as soon as you get off the train. And bundle up in a nice sweater, it’s 70 degrees Fahrenheit outside and I don’t want you to catch a cold! Fershtay?” her mother asked, and SG nodded as if she had been paying attention the whole time.“Good, good,” her mother said, kissing her on the cheek and passing her 5 dollars for lunch. “Don’t forget that you owe me a quarter from 2 weeks ago,” her mother warned.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It was lunchtime, and SG was starved. It was time to put her superpower, the ability to sniff out bargains within a 5 mile radius, to the test. She stood on the corner of Chambers and Church and inhaled the scents of Manhattan. It had rained the day before, and the air smelled fragrant. Further smelling uncovered that Portobello’s was selling 2 slices of pizza and a coke for 5 dollars, but Subway had 5 dollar subs for sale. Using her keen math senses, SG quickly calculated that Subway sandwiches had a greater mass, and therefore she got more food for her money. Smelled like a deal! SG patted her nose for a job well done.SG entered the establishment, wrinkling her nose at the odor of bacon. It weakened her ability to sniff out bargains, not to mention just smelled downright bad. She ordered a chicken breast sandwich and got out her money to pay.“That will be 5.52,” the dark-skinned boy at the counter spoke in a bored monotonous voice.“How dare you be such a gonif,” Superjew spat, “It’s 5.42, it has been so for the past year.”“It’s 10 cents more…” the dark-skinned boy said slowly and not kindly, “It’s not going to break the bank….”SuperJew felt herself growing angry, first at the fact that this dark-skinned boy was trying to deceive her, and secondly at the fact that he talked in the manner of an uneducated idiot.“It is 10 cents that I do not need to pay!” she said hotly, “And frankly, I refuse to do just that.”“Are you serious?” “Are you not serious?” SG asked, answering a question with a question, as she had been taught to when she was younger.The boy glowered at her as he handed her the sandwich.“Just take it and shut up.”SG ignored his insult and rejoiced in the sandwich having cost nothing at all. This meant that she and her friends Rivka and Lea could stop by her favorite place, the 99 cent store, after Jewish Club!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Rivka tried on a pair of sunglasses and modeled them for Lea and SG.“What do you think?” she asked, spinning around.“Don’t do it,” SG warned, looking through a display of lip glosses, “I sniffed the same pair in the 99 cent store across town reduced to 75 cents.”
“You’re so useful, with your amazing superpowers,” Rivka said, putting the glasses back on their shelf.SG picked up two lip glosses and held both of them close to her face. One had 7 grams of lip gloss, and one had 8. Decision made.
She headed to the cash register to pay and tripped over someone’s protruding leg, landing on the palms of her hands with a thud. “Oh, shoot. I’m so sorry!” The person who the leg belonged to extended SG a tanned arm. She grasped it and looked up into his face.
Oh. My. Adonai. She made a quick broche that her unruly brown curls were not in disarray and that her nose situation was under control before offering the adorable male specimen in front of her a shy smile.“Don’t be,” she said flirtatiously, extending a thin hand in greeting, “I’m SuperJew.”
“Hey, SuperJew,” he said, not at all taken aback by her name, “I’m David.”
JEWISH NAME. JEWISH NAME. JEWISH NAME.
SuperJew gave David a quick once over. Brown curls, nose slightly out of the ordinary, nice smile, shopping in the 99 cent store… He might be one of their own.“I .. haven’t seen you in the synagogue,” SG said coyly.“I just moved here from Jerasulem,” he said, nodding, and still holding onto her hand.
“Maybe I could be your tour guide…” SG offered.
“I’d like that.”
SuperJew’s phone rang obnoxiously, interrupting her moment. SG knew who it was before even flipping the phone open.“Hey, Mom,” she answered, holding up a finger for David to wait, “Yes, I bought the ingredients for the matzo ball soup…Yes, I’m warm and fed. Yes, I’m sorry I forgot to call you after using the bathroom.” She quickly finished the conversation and hung up the phone, embarrassed.
“Super Jewish mom?” David asked.
“YES!” SuperJew answered, grateful for somebody that understood.
“My mom’s a total feminist, so she raised me to cook and clean so that I could help out my wife some day.”
SuperJew felt her Jewish heart bounce happily around her chest.
“I have to go, but here’s my number,” David took SuperJew’s phone from her pocket and used the keypad to input a number and save himself as a contact. “I’d love that tour.
”SuperJew couldn’t stop herself from checking out his round tuches as he exited the store.
This one was definitely a keeper.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uneIieUrgI

I arrived home on Friday at 9 to find my father assuming an awkward pose on our living room couch.
Generally, when someone in our family sits on our couch, it's a sign that things are Not Good.
The couch is used less for sitting and more for clothes hanger. It is covered with accessories, pillows, and - of course - clothes.
The two times my parents sat on the couch, one was to tell me my mother had lost my ipod when she had taken it without my permission, and the second time was 15 minutes later when i yelled at my mother for losing said ipod and got grounded.
So it was fairly strange to find my father sitting on the couch.
Stranger still was that he had abandoned his Ghetto Garb.
"Paula," he patted the couch space next to him, "Come have a sit."
"Daddy-o, don't you mean a sit-down-o?" I joked, quoting him directly from last week.
Father didn't laugh.
"I want to talk with you .. about boys."
OHHHHHHH HELL NO.
"Specifically .... are you assocating with them?"
"Well," I chose my words carefully, "I go to school with them and sometimes I see them ...
"DO YOU KISS THEM. ARE YOU DOING THINGS WITH THEM. PAULA, HOW MUCH ARE YOU TELLING ME?" Father was shrieking. And not the way he shrieks when he plays bingo, or the way he shrieks when he is watching soccer. No, he was shrieking like when he got my texting bill. That sort of high pitched, animal, OHMYGOD I NEED THIS PURSE kind of shriek.
"Dad! Where is this coming from?"
"HAVE YOU EVER BEEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ALCOHOL? OR DRUGS? ARE YOU A VIRGIN?"
"Dad!"
"I'm sorry," he said, rubbing the bald spot I hadn't seen in over a month due to it constantly being under a customized hat, "It's just I saw this video of this girl - named Victoria? Paula, she's had sex over 300 TIMES! She has it in the staircase, in the mall, IN HER MOMMA'S BED. Paula, have you ever had SEX IN OUR BED? You know you can't be having sex in our bed, because WE DON'T HAVE SEX IN OUR BED."
"WOAH. TOO MUCH INFORMATION. Did you say you watched Victoria? If my baby loses its pacifier -"
"It's okay, cause I got 3 MO," Father cut me off.
"I WILL DO WHATEVA IT TAKES TO HAVE A BABY," we both intoned.
"I'm going to dress my baby in all brand names," Daddy said, thrusting out a hip.
"And if I can't afford it, I guess i'm gonna steal it."
"If my baby gets cold and needs a blanket, it's okay, cause I have it!" Dad said excitedly.
This was the father I knew and loved.
"Wow, Paula," said Father, "I really am happy that you're not that attractive."
This was the father I hated and despised.
"I mean," Father corrected himself, "I really am happy you're not doing these sorts of things, and even more happy that you don't have a boyfriend."
Um. That makes one of us.

Ay gevalt.

51.
I got a 51 on my math test.
"Dad," I tell my father, "I got a 51."
"That's not good," he says into his cell phone, "Not okay with me, home skillet."
"Are you talking to me, or ... ?" I trail off.
"Gots to gos. The spawn is talking to me," he laughs, "Yeah, the one with the acne."
"Who was that?"
"Yeah, the acne's gotten worse. She looks more like a prebuscent teen every day - "
"DAD."
"Yeah, but she's 15. Oh man, she's getting angry. Angry spawn."
"DAD."
"Gotta go. I'm out. This spawn throws things."
"WHO WAS THAT?" I ask angrily.
"The bacon to my egg. The yo to my homie. The peanut to my butter. The - "
"Mom?"
"Nah. My secretary. What's this I hear about a 31?"
"51," I cringe, "on my math test."
"Word? Am I supposed to, like, care? Or not?" he turns to the computer, where he's making himself a pair of kicks.
"Well," I explain, "This is the part where you tell me to try harder."
"Try harder."
"And study more."
"Study more."
"Dad, I'm getting the drift you don't care."
"Of course I care! Blue or yellow?"
"Dad! This is serious! This is trig!"
"WORD UP? TRIG?" his whole face brightens up, "CONGRATS, PAULA. YO MAD GOOD JOB. I GOT A 32 ON MY FIRST TRIG TEST."
"Dad, I think you don't qualify as a good example ... "
"I PAID SOME NERD TO TAKE IT FOR ME. BUT HE BACKED OUT. So I finished the test in 10 minutes and went to fool around with your mother in an empty -"
"DAD. OH MY GOD. Too much information. Can you help me?"
"Oh, yeah, sure. 4 more dollars?" He looks for his monogrammed 50 cent wallet.
"No, Dad. Like, help me. With the math."
His whole face looks crushed. "But .. I was making myself a pair of kicks .. "
He grabs the test from my hands and his eyes glaze over.
"Are you sure you can't pay off someone? Or something? Or .. God, Paula. Just looking at all this math makes me sick."
"Listen, father. I am starting to doubt that degree you have framed in the bathroom. You seem to have paid your way out of EVERYTHING."
"Well yeah. I mean, after you get kicked out of college, you have to start trying."
"KICKED OUT OF COLLEGE?"
"Yeah," he looks away sheepishly, "Your mother said never to mention that to you guys."
"Our mother also said she loves you. Obviously the woman can't be held responsible for her actions. Tell me more."
"Well, it was just a small accident..."
"How small?"
"Well, it was college. I had a bit too much beer .. and next thing you know, I was hitting send on a 7 page email to my teacher outlining how much I hated her."
"7 PAGES?"
"Yeah," my dad said proudly, "I've never put so much effort into a paper in my life."
"Dad. You kind of fail."
"Well, that's not why I got kicked out."
"It's ... Not?"
"Well .." he scratched his neck, "This might have been my third offense."
"THIRD?"
"I got caught fooling around with your mother. Twice. And came to class drunk. Thrice."
I am speechless.
"DON'T TELL YOUR MOTHER ANY OF THIS."
How can I? Speechless.
He chuckled, "Yep. Good memories."
My father was a juvenile deliquent.
"Damn," Dad says, getting back to reality, "Your mother is going to flip when she sees that 51."
"This is true," I say, edging out of the room, "But I'll soften her up with your college stories first."
"YOU SPAWN!"

Russia is corrupt.

Late at night last Tuesday I was working on a drafting assignment, spending endless minutes matching parallel lines, knocking back cranberry juice, and causing holes in the paper due to too many erasures. After 40 painstaking minutes, I help up my masterpiece - one 6 by 6 paralellogram with an intrusion.
"There has got to be an easier way," I thought to myself.
"Oh, hey, what's happening?" said my hip dad, walking into the room with a baseball cap on backwards and his cell phone on speaker.
"Dad...I thought we were past this stage in your midlfe crisis," I spoke rudely, flicking his cap off his head.
"Hey, yo that was customized! Yes is that ..an intrusion?" he peered over my shoulder at my beautiful diagram.
"GET OUT. YOU SPEAK DRAFTING?" I squealed.
"It looks awful," he continued, "And your lines are all messed up. And you can see the erasures everywhere."
"Don't hate, appreciate," I told my dad, knocking back another glass of cranberry juice.
"Man," he continued, ignoring me, "When I was your age I totally hated that class. Waste of time. I paid this stupid nerd to do it for me."
"Really?" I asked, surprised at my dad's badass-ness.
"Word," he nodded, "And then we got caught. But I paid off the teacher to keep it on the down low."
"REALLY?" I asked, even more surprised at his bad-ass-ness.
"Uh-huh," he nodded, " And I paid off some other nerd to sit in the class for me. My teacher was half blind and wasn't suspicious of the fact that he had 4 girls in his class named Vladimir and 5 boys in the class named Anastasia. We all looked the same to him. Russia was corrupt, of course. This was following Stalin's death ..."
"Oh, nice," I nod, losing interest.
"Yeah," he continued fondly, "I used to cut that class and fool around with your mother in one of the empty classrooms."
"EW," I felt barf rise up in my throat, "I had always hung on to the possible glimmer of hope that I was a test tube baby. Or that," I looked Daddy the Gangsta up and down from his Nikes to his backwards baseball hat, "You were not my father."
"Oh, I'm your father all right. Just check out your nose. And you were definitely made of lots of love, and lots of - "
"DAD. STOP NOW,"
"Anyway, if I was you, I'd just pay an asian to do that for me," he nodded and my intrusion, "They are really good at that stuff."
"DAD. I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE ENCOURAGING THIS."
"Whattttt? I'll give you the money for it."
"Dad - wait, really?"
"Word UP. 5 rubles in American cash would be like -- here, here's 4 bucks."
"SWEET."
"What are you guys up to?" My mom says, coming into the room.
"Just telling Paula about drafting."
"Oh, with that senile guy? Remember we used to cut it and go to that classroom? Oh man, remember that move you had?" My mom remembers wistfully.
"YEAH!" says my ancient father.
They look at each other like they are reborn. Gag me.
"Right well," I look at my ancient parents and envision them having once loved each other. ew?
"I'm going to .. go pay an Asian."
"That's what I did!" my mother happily announces.
"Me, too," my dad smiles at her.
Ew. My parents are ... getting it on.
And over drafting?

The Apocalypse is coming.

And yes, I have valid proof of this fact.
Why?
Because my father, Alexander, has begun to talk in gangsta.
Yes, you read the above line correctly.
My 50 year old Russian father has begun incorporating words like, "word up", "homeslice", and my personal favorite, "biznatch," into his daily vocabulary.
Yesterday I was greeted with, "Home skillet, how was schoolz? Coolz?"
Although you can imagine my horror at the above statement, and the fact that it was followed with a peace out sign, my bigger problem was what my dad was wearing.
Specifically, a black mesh tank and a backwards baseball hat.
Black. Mesh. Tank.
Backwards. Baseball. Hat.
A normal child would run screaming from the sight of her mid-life-crisis-because-there's-no-other-explanation-for-it-father.
But I smiled courageously and asked him in a very kind tone i generally reserve for the mentally misguided, or for crying 3 year olds, "What on earth, dad, are you wearing? And saying?"
"You likesz it? My homie gee bought it for me."
"Dad, there is less material in the tank than in a sports bra."
"Don't be hatin' cause you ain't me!"
Oh. My. God.
"Dad," I ventured slowly, "I never though I'd say this, but I'd rather you be having an affair with a 20 year old secratary than forcing me to experience this."
"Yo, whatchyoo talkin' about?" the wrinkled man asked, "I thinksz -"
His train of thought was interrupted when his cell phone rang.
"Yo," he answered, nodding his head at me.
"Oh, okay" he returned to his normal voice, "Yeah, I have those papers."
He leaned down to pick something up from his briefcase, and that's when i saw the ghastliest sight of them all.
Things you never, ever want your father to wear all at once:
3) A mesh shirt
2) A backwards baseball hat.
And topping the list, at number 1?
1) SHORTS PULLED DOWN TO REVEAL BOXERS.
wait, what's that?
SHORTS PULLED DOWN. TO REVEAL BOXERS.
This was the last straw.
"This is the last straw," I told my father.
"What happened in this hizzhouse?" he asked.
"YOU CANNOT WEAR A MESH SHIRT, TALK GANGSTA, WEAR A BACKWARDS BASEBALL HAT, AND CERTAINLY CANNOT FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD EVER PULL YOUR SHORTS DOWN TO REVEAL YOUR BOXERS."
"Chillax," my buddhist father spoke, "It's all cool, yo."
"IT IS NOT COOL. GO TO YOUR BEDROOM AND CHANGE INTO REAL CLOTHES OR I'LL TELL MOM ABOUT THE TIME YOU FED US NOTHING BUT COOKIES FOR THE WEEK SHE WAS ON VACATION, AND ESTHER GOT SICK AND HAD TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL, AND YOU MADE US SWEAR THAT WE COULD NEVER TELL MOM ABOUT THE TIME YOU FED US NOTHING BUT COOKIES FOR THE WEEK SHE WAS ON VACATION AND ESTHER GOT SICK AND HAD TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL."
"HEY," he returned to normal dad, " WE HAD A DEAL."
"That deal was off, my mentally deranged father," I rationally told him, "WHEN THE MESH SHIRT CAME ON."
"Aw, c'mon, Paula. Don't ruin all the fun," he whined.
"WHAT FUN? ALL I SEE IS A METHOD DEVISED TO TORTURE THE INNER CORE OF MY SOUL."
"Can i please keep the - "
"No."
"What about the -"
"No."
"Not even the -"
"ESPECIALLY NOT."
As he walked back into his bedroom, my 10 year old sister came out of her room wearing one of my bras, stuffed to the brim with tissue, and hot pink lipstick and a shirt three sizes too small. She opened the door to the street and started walking out.
"WHERE. ARE. YOU. GOING?"
"OUT! DON'T WAIT UP!"
I grabbed her by the collar.
"Go change back into your own clothes. And wipe off the clown makeup."
"But Paula! What about the -"
"No."
"Not even the -"
"No."
"But I look so cute in the - "
"NO."
Sometimes it's hard, being the only sane person in the family.

Oh, Miley!

Miley Cyrus - what respect i have for you as a person. You are such a beautiful and thoughtful woman, and SUCH a sex icon. One day I envision you will go down as history, right beside Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn.
Thank you for inspiring me, Miley. With ballads like, " If I'm not doin' too well, why be so hard on myself?" I can see why you have a cult-like teenage following. Those lyrics guided me through my freshman year of high school, and I hold solely you responsible for my 65 average.
Thanks, Miley, for showing me the right way to deal with a break - up - make a song and target the guy who broke up with me. Next time I break with up a kind diabetic, I will draw all over his face on a picture, shoot a video about it, and embarass him in front of America.
You are like a poet, rhyming all over the place. "But my intentions are good, yeah yeah yeah, sometimes just misunderstood" just had me tearing up all over the place. What meaning, what DEPTH those words have.
Thank you for setting a good example, with all your half naked pictures. Seriously, sometimes a girl just needs to get down and dirty - I mean, who CARES if 8 year olds look up to you as if you were a god? You have to do what YOU want, and what YOU need. Please, don't consider the pure minds you are influencing. Just go out there and do your thang, Miley. And if that means taking sleazy myspace pictures with your hot pink panties, well who's going to stop you?
Thanks for saying being quoted in the tabloids as saying it won't happen again, and then doing it again 2 weeks later. I really respect you for that, so much. Let all those 5 year old's eat their hearts out!
What I appreciate more than anything else are the things you say. Your wise words of wisdom will stick with me forever. The things you say really make me think about my life. For example, "I don't know if I could go back to, like, a normal life. I think it would be too hard."
Word, Miley. Just straight up word.
Or take, for example, "It was insane. All of a sudden I woke up one day and went to Macy’s and saw myself on a T-shirt. I feel empowered when I see my face on a T-shirt."
We can all, like, totally relate, like.
And the way you target other celebrities? I LOVE that tiger attitude you have. You're just so FIERCE, Miley. Don't let them other nice celebrities bring you down. Just get out there and do your thaaaang, girlfriend. Seriously, targeting Demi and Selena? BRILLIANT.
And don't listen to what anybody says, how you have low self-esteem. Everybody knows you have high self-esteem. Especially when you say things like, "I went to Macy's and tried on all the Hannah Montana stuff. It was fun."
Sounds totes fun, dollface.
You're especially literate, and I see that you think education is important. I mean, after all, ANYBODY could have made the mistake of calling their youtube video, "We are TO hapy." as opposed to "We are too happy."
But that's okay, 'cause who cares about education. We know what values you care about, Miley.
"I love your rack," you told Katy Perry.
Kudos, Miley. We all do!
And we're sorry, Miley, we really are, about how boys are just all over you.
"Just because I have big boobs .. " you tell Seventeen. America understands, Miles. Double A's are pretty hard to manage.
What the public appreciate most about you, Miley?
"I love God" you tell People magazine, 2 days after photos leak of you making out with an unidentified guy.
So thanks a lot, Miley. For setting a good example for the children of America, and for being a good Christian.