Image via Iryna Rasko/Shutterstock.

A lot of talk goes on in the New York media scene about who the stupidest bitch is. For Gawker Media’s 2016 Senior Week, I thought I’d air out some dirty laundry: it’s me.

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You don’t believe me? Here is some evidence: Sometimes when I’m tired, I secretly pray that everyone on the subway bonks their head on a pole. Or when someone stumbles over, I think it was their fault and I resent them for it.

I’ve been a stupid bitch my whole life. When I was four, my parents were teaching me about what “gay” was and said, for example, Elton John is gay. I didn’t know what any of it meant, but I knew I had to tell. So I graffitied in erasable pencil on my pre-K bathroom stall: “Elton John is gay.” Messed up.

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When I was ten, I paid my eight-year-old sister $20 to let me sit in the front seat of the car forever. She agreed because she didn’t know I was a swindler.

At sleep-away camp a few years later, I won an award for horseback riding: “Most improved rides,” my first ever recognition. Since I didn’t expect an award I wasn’t paying attention to the ceremony, and when I was finally pushed on stage, the award MC said, “You could at least pretend to be excited.” Savage.

Later, in high school, I dated a Jewish teen and visited his family for Sukkot, and he dumped me days later. I realized that week that I had lice, but I never said. And I never will. Damn.

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In college I worked at the radio station and wanted to fit in, so I snuck behind the biofuels building (a hippie school) and tried to smoke a cigarette for practice and to see if I liked it. I hated it and shook the whole time. Nice.

When I spent a semester in Paris, I lived with a family who was supposed to give me dinner three times per week. They usually had dinner at 10 p.m., but I couldn’t wait so long and I was cripplingly shy, so I stole food out of their cabinets and then disappeared for the rest of the night. Ha ha, joke’s on them.

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When Erin Ryan hired me at Jezebel, she asked if I liked gummy candies. I said “No,” but she heard, “Yes,” and told everyone I liked them. I don’t like them. Brutal.

The other day, some commenters got mad at me for writing about the Olympics before they had a chance to watch. I wrote a lot of strongly worded comments, but I deleted them. Suckers!

Sometimes after I throw up, I weigh myself because, why not? Huh.

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I feel jealous any time anyone gets anything. Even if I don’t want it. Dang.

Sometimes I take two bags of cheddar bunnies from the snack cabinet, in case I want one tomorrow. But I usually eat them both at once. Shit.

I don’t like most children. I think they have bad personalities. Sick.

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I delete 60% of my tweets, and I’ll never stop. Nuts.

Sorry, but I don’t care.