"Berwyn, Berwyn, the shittiest town. The more you’re there, the more you frown.
To use a totally cliche anecdote, Berwyn is Chicago’s butthole younger brother. Like if Chicago is the cool-teen-smoking-cigarettes-sitting-on-his-Camaro-impressing-Seniors-when-he’s-a-Sophomore, Berwyn is the shirtless-weasel-faced-psychopath-torturing-whatever-animal-he-catches-in-his-primitive-traps-in-some-gross-fort-he’s-built-in-the-woods-little-brother. Berwyn doesn’t have any shirts without holes. Berwyn smells like he doesn’t know how to wipe properly, or maybe he knows how but refuses to “because Obama”. Berwyn is the kid other children avoid, except for his fat friend Alsip.
So why the fuck wouldn’t I run a show there"
"I’ve worked as a hostess since college at a few restaurants, because it’s an easy, talentless job with a lot of time to spend staring out the front window, wondering what death feels like. It’s the type of job where it’s acceptable to file your nails in public for some reason, and I like that because it feels as close as I’m going to get to being the secretary for the Ghostbusters."
I still have no idea what fuck the point of signing me up for Girl Scouts was, unless it was just a very obvious attempt by my parents to spend less time with me. We didn’t learn much. I guess I learned how to build a fire (if I had to describe it, it’s like a triangle with littler triangles of flammable stuff inside of it which I realizes seems like a really inept explanation, but trust me: I look adept as shit lighting bonfires in front of new boyfriends and casually roasting a hot dog over it). I learned how to crochet, a useless life skill that has resulted in many failed potholders. And I learned how to embezzle money the correct way. There’s no badge for it, and I got kicked out because of it, but guess what Troop 64: it was worth it.