I LOVE “Runaway” by Kanye West, for many reasons but mostly because it accurately depicts my exact issues with men in a clear and focused voice. My favourite part is “I could have me a good girl, and still be addicted to them hood rats,” which is basically the story of my life if you replaced the word “girl” with “dude” and “hood rats” with “guitar players.”

HAHAHA. No, but really- fuck guitar players, such people are evil, seriously never again. Oh and just for the record, I never e-mailed any bitch a picture of my dick.

I HATE guitar players.

I LOVE that noise Kanye West makes which goes: Hyenh, or maybe, Hyeunh. Or: Enh? Heuggh. Heunyh. Eunh. Hueynyh. Hennnh. Huehnnnhyh. Chhheunh. Chuen. Huh. Huh?

(If you still don’t know what I mean, you can hear it 0:45 into “Power”, and about a million other times)

I HATE the word “amazeballs”, which makes me feel like I’m making out with a teenage boy who has grape Slurpee backwash stuck in his peach fuzz EWWWWWW

I LOVE the picture sleeve to Kevin Ayers’ “Money Money Money”:

I also love the song itself quite a bit, and I love (well, really more like like) how I keep typoing it as “Money Monkey Monkey,” which is a great song title. Speaking of animal-themed song title typos, the other day I was writing someone an e-mail about my job, which is making window displays in a store window. My point was- when people watch me make my window displays from outside the window, I relate to the Smashing Pumpkins lyric “Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage” more than I ever thought I would, but I typoed “cage” as “cafe,” and I LOVE(D) it. “Wow,” I thought, “That’s me. A rat in a cafe.”

I HATE talking about Tavi Gevinson. I’m over it. There is nothing more to say.

I LOVE my cream Dace Sally Shawl from Robber.

I HATE Every single thing in the world about this stupid Rob Pruitt x Opening Ceremony Cocaine Tee:

Like OH MY GOD WOW! HOW CLEVER AND WRY! The Coca-Cola logo says “Cocaine”! GET IT? Now all the hugest douchebags in New York City have a t-shirt to wear!

Also, everything about this t-shirt conceptually is sooooooooooooo 2002.

I LOVE(D) that brief (but golden!) window of time last month, when the peanut M&Ms dispenser in my staffroom was broken in such a way that you could just twist the turny thing and handful upon handful of peanut M&Ms would pour out of the slot FOREVER/FOR FREE.

I HATE people who are jerks about Starbucks and aggressively over-self-identify as being patrons of independent coffee shops i.e. this dude I went on a really horrific date with two weeks ago. I was like “UMMMMMM… can I go home?”

(If I were a rat in a cafe, that cafe would be Starbucks.)

I LOVE(D) the afternoon of the first snowfall of this winter, when I walked inside the big fat beautiful falling snowflakes, which were the best kind of Dickensian (not the coal and orphanages kind), wearing a grey dude’s overcoat with my fur hat and a houndstooth scarf and one of my Dad’s sweaters as a minidress over cableknit stockings, and I saw a dog with a cone around his neck prancing around like “Don’t lick your wounds, Buddy!” I was drinking a Grande Nonfat No Whip Peppermint Mocha while listening to my #1 favourite Christmas song ever: “Apples & Oranges” by Syd’s Pink Floyd. And I was really happy right then, and those are the times when I am happiest always. When life just comes together like that.

I HATE The Lulu Lemonned-out, Kelly Ripaey bitch who, more often than not, I am stuck working out on an elliptical machine next to. She likes elliptical #21, and I have MAD brand loyalty to #20. It’s so smooth. Anyway, Kelly Lulu Lemon Ripa is insane. She does two hours of cardio per day, six days a week (I know this for a fact because I overheard her bragging about it to a personal trainer, who was totally like “Um what the hell is wrong with you”), and always drinks an EXTRA LARGE CUP OF HOT IRISH CREAM COFFEE while working out, which a) is retarded and b) smells bad and c) distracts me because it smells bad. She also looks at the amount of calories I’ve burned on my display screen about once a minute with highly competitive undertones, which, being a recovered anorexic and all, consistently ruins my workout.

“CHILL OUT!” I want to scream, “DON’T WORRY! YOU’RE SKINNIER THAN ME!” but instead I just fantasize about pushing her over.

I LOVE my parents.