don't ask me|
What Was Said Before
by the Killer Queen
I'll be short but never sweet -- this column has been added to Spite Magazine to appease its hard-working yet desperate staff -- people who have suddenly developed a wild urge to undertake a certain responsibility for the twisted, snarling brood circling around their very own creation.
With this in mind, I hereby introduce Don't Ask Me, an advice column to be updated sporadically, designed to help guide YOU, the unfortunate reader, through the most heinous situations life has thrown you into.
As an unapologetically vikingesque, Alanis Morissette-owning, meteorologically-trained, Registrar's Office-employed, classic rock-loving Canadian with a terribly jaded and perhaps overly-sarcastic penchant for shooting straight from the hip (and I do have stellar aim), I have begrudgingly succumbed to my destiny to help Spite out and become your guide throughout your journey towards the ultimate truth. You both need it.
Send an email to my lair at email@example.com. Tell me about your last hideous internet date. Tell me about your best friend's surprisingly intricate and new-found sexual moralities. Tell me about the neuroses of your cat. There's no need to lie -- I can sniff out the stench of your deceit at least a timezone away and you will be banished to the bottom of the pile. Don't forget to check back to this page for responses. I will be honest yet merciless.