*Enjoy cunts*

Laura Grindalbarrogschnider is pregnant. Who the daddy? Who cares? Laura Grindalbarrogschnider is no longer eligible for class valedictorian. Pregnancy = redundancy. Jamie Lynn Spears’ fucking gremlin had ruined Zoey101, and in doing so, ripped her gooch but that’s neither here nor there. Get it? Her minge and asshole are conjoined motherfucking twins called fuck me and consequences. Now that Laura Grindalbarrogschnider was out of the running, I was the frontrunner. Kevin Spacey’s modelling school in Iowa would require credentials such as these for their elite institute.

My suspension was almost over and the thought had given me joy beyond my mother’s restricted imagination. With the exceptions of Ed’s penis and Peter’s blatant how to catch a predator persona, home was uninspiring. Social media was my only creative outlet and I took great pleasure in trolling Tumblr activists.

“I hate immigrants. #getout #buttercrise #surry” got a couple of retweets. One of those retweets came from @viviombre aka Vivienne Ombre, Erin Schechnor’s right hand omelette. Hmm, Nancy Drew, let’s get cracking! Emma Robert’s potential is unlimited. Far from the introvert, Vivienne’s twitter contained what some would call, I thrive on male attention as my mother has a terminal illness content but breaking the mould from gym selfies, make-up giveaways and ambiguously placed mugs was a retweet of an Erin Schechnor original.

“Looks like it’s a CUNT CLIMATE kids. Forecasts predict a high chance of bitter and bitch. Brace yourselves girls of Notre Dame #vegan #gohome #sandra #lauragindalbarrogschniderispregnant?!?!” That wench. Guess who’s losing their legs tomorrow.

“Have you seen my toothbrush?” Ed was naked. I was puzzled. My knickers became snickers. Irritable Bowel Syndrome was not my friend.

“No. Have you tried the bathroom?” I was puzzled, again.

“Obviously.” He didn’t share my enthusiasm. He has shared my bed and maybe, genetics.

“Have you asked… daddy?” He had had a history of theft. Robbing boys regularly. Rumour has it, he once robbed a boy of his family jewels. I say rumour, but c’est la vie.

“No, Dad’s gone to work. I rang him.” Peter’s a nail technician.

“You can use mine.” I bit my lip.

“That’s disgusting.” He pointed to my lip. Blood dripping but who slipping? ME. INTO A REALM OF SELF DEPRECIATION. YELP.

“I’m clean.”

“I’ll go without.”

“I’M SOBER!” Ed decided to act on my erratic behaviour. He opened my personal drawer and pulled out the second compartment. His smouldering fingernails caressed the outer lining of my Calvin Klein socks. STOP. My asthma was coming back. I gasped for breath. I was hyperventilating. I was shaking like a leaf. A leaf with motor-neurons disease. Oh my grill, he was smelling my designer socks. Will he smell my bodily hair? Please? My lifeless body was slumped in the foetal position as the remainder of my blood inhabited my face. Scarlet was not the word. My discomfort was established but that wasn’t going to stop. I was ready. My chance WAS NOW. I just needed the re-assurance, the confidence, the…

“Blehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgrekkkkblehhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrgrkkkkkkkkkkkkbleh.” At that exact second, he had pulled out of me. LOL. He pulled out a shoulder of vodka. I’m an alcoholic. An alcoholic who had projectile vomited on her late father’s quilt. That quilt? How do I even begin to describe it?

I can’t.

“Bye Sondra.”

“Bye.” I smiled. I died inside. Domestic abuse. A kiss with a fist is better than none. I’m undiscovered.




*Hi girls*

“I didn’t squirt. I promise.” Ed wasn’t impressed, contrary to his saturated boxers. Our dad would be home any minute and he had planned not to wash his sheets. Cleanliness prevents incest. It’s proven.

“I don’t even have fabric conditioner!” He appeared to be fuckboi.

“This is your fault, therefore you clean it!”

“My fault? Your hand literally spasmed upon touching my inner clitoris. I had no control over the matter.” I felt a leak. I had pissed the bed. That’s typical me. Pissing on property. I need more self- control and definitely better muscle in my inner pussy hussy. Apart from my Uncle, no one else had left me in such a vulnerable position. Bareback in my bathtub. R.I.P CHILDHOOD.

“Just go. You’re making it worse.”

A total of five people had died on the sidewalk opposite my house. Two from a hit & run. Their names are… irrelevant. Another man had tripped over a misplaced lunchbox and broken his neck. Hillary Swank! My dad suffered a major stroke and died later from further complications. He was 37. He was racist. He was no ordinary girl. I valued every bit of that man, from his ear lobes to his belly button. He’d often let me be the horse. Memories.

“Fine. I hope you drown in your shame and awkwardly placed brow-line.” I’d achieved third-wave feminism and felt terrible. Why didn’t he want me? Why doesn’t he need me? I’m capable of foreplay and conversation. Hmm, he must be asexual.

Having a Stepfather isn’t as bad as you think. Yes, he clearly loves me less and is very much attracted to me. No, he hasn’t saved for my college tuition nor has he put me on the pill, but he’s a nice guy. Peter’s collection of floral T-shirts had recently gone out of control. Every room in the house was full with tributes to Bob Marley, Ezra Pound, flamingos, male escorts and palm trees. To make more room for his fetish, I moved to the couch. Well, I was forced but I understand why.

“Young boys need their privacy, and girls have no rights hee hee.” Oh god, so problematic. I hope he never hits me again. I hope I figure skate again.

Oh, I just got a text. I wonder from who? Or whom? My womb is better than yours because it works. Oh, it’s Ava. My best friend. Her look on fleek as she dresses hella chic. I’m Coco Rocha. You’re grotesque. Oh great, she’s ringing me.

“Hey girl. My mum has cancer!”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah. Have you heard about Laura Grindalbarrogschnider?”

“What about Laura Grindalbarrogschnider?”

“Well, Laura Grindalbarrogschnider…”

“Actually, who’s Laura Grindalbarrogschnider?

“Heiress to Grindalbarrogschnider hotels.”

“Oh yes.”

“Anyway, she’s…”

“How do you spell Gindalbarrogschnider?”


“Are you sure?”


“But you’re dyslexic.”

“You’re illegitimate.”


“Is she Jewish?”


“Are you Jewish?”


“Cool. Bai.”


What a catch. Oh wait, I purposely forgot to listen to Ava about Laura Grindalbarrogschnider. I empathise with Barbara Streisand. I’m undiscovered.



*Hello girls. Join me on my journey through each hole in my body. The drama is REAL, the people are REAL, but am I?*

“Choke on the words that leave your mouth, not those stolen in doubt” – SONDRA

So, I’m not pregnant but I am most definitely a whore. Delicious. Modelling has not prepared me for such responsibility nor had it financially sustained for situations involving maternity wear. BY CHRIST, I was one lucky dick grafter. Oh no, have I awoken my immobile mother? I can’t remember. I’ll check the cupboard to see if she’s stolen some of my Xanax, which stimulates weight loss. Someone’s insecure. Insecurities are juicy yet sweaty. Sweat leads to chronic heart issues. Ouch.

“Mummy, get up!” She was a heavy sleeper. Years of child abuse had educated a cut-throat heroine. Unbeknownst to everyone but myself, she was a sensitive soul under a primitive layer of cunt.

“What!” Is it a gerbil? No, my stale mother regained consciousness and waddled downstairs to meet my seductive self.

“I’m not pregnant…”

“Where’s my packet of rennies?” Her dressing gown was see through, hence why inverted nibbles had never looked so… situational. Christina Applegate. Samantha Who? I’m undiscovered.

“You don’t have heartburn, you’re just an addict.” She had relied too much on cheesecake during the 90’s, resulting in her irrational fear of strawberries. Upon finding her DRUGS, I threw them at her average complexion. She gulped them down like some Krabby Patty bullshit. Oh no, her varicose veins had exploded. Contrary to popular belief, mothers are not kind. You sit on one measly dick and you’re pronounced a mother. I dry hump Alec Baldwin’s daughter and I’m pronounced a whore. Also, a lesbian but people respect that now.

30th August 2001, the first day mother lay her acrylic nails on me. 14 years later, I’m on my way out of High School. How time flies. Men who fly away from their alcoholic wife astonish me. Since it was my last year of High School before University, I was determined to improve my reputation. I’m famous. Notre Dame : Conservative Academy had one policy, be on top or be bilingual. Those who were neither were ostracized and the latter were commiserated? But popularity only meant fingering your girls in the changing rooms until someone bled.. so.. I wasn’t exactly missing out. Reese Witherspoon circa Cruel Intentions, y’know? By distancing myself from the school’s small-minded sphere, I gained little friendship but gained something worth savoring. Notoriety.

“Your knickers smell of cabbage, I guess Daddy is vegan now.” Erin Schechnor had diabetes. Offense could only be taken to a certain degree. My dad is dead. All that is left of him is Shania Twain and her multiple offspring.  So real insensitive, Erin.

“I’ll rip your taint open with my fucking jaw-bone, you cock dependent fucklord.” I spat. I actually spat on her. I physically discharged saliva onto her unfortunately textured face. I got suspended. That’s why I’m writing in this diary. I’m Meg Gabot.. or should I say Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo, Princess of Genovia. I’m undiscovered.