Now see folks here’s what we call a McCon-essay, a — a McConaughe-rant, or what have you. Tu comprendo brother? This is just a way to be, a way to be your best self — me — I am your best self. Just believe me when I say that, amigo. But I know what you’re thinking though, aight — you’re thinking “How could Academy Award winning actor, Matthew McConaughey, the living embodiment of McConaissance AND the baby angel plus the alien emoji — have time, have actual time, and not to mention the d e d i c a t i o n for this kind of social enlightenment?” Now, see, there’s a darkness, right? But with all those kinds of dark there comes a light . . . ness.

A reservoir of truth has shot out of me and I shall not betray it, no sir, I am for the people, by the people, I will serve in all my mighty capacity to bring y’all to some good ol’ McConaughey state of livin’ no matter. Let me bring you to that J(ust) K(eep) L(ivin’) kind of goodness, hombre. I am me, but you can be me, too. You and I can both be me, together, in the holy light towards the sunsets of providence (not the city) onwards to the betterment of humanity, to the betterment of us, right on right on to the end goal of real true protruding happiness. I am my own hero in 10 years — so, let me be yours, too. I’ll show you the way, brother.

Alright, alright folks here are some much needed tips to be more like me.

Numero Uno: If you do not have a McConaug-drawl — as in part Texan, part mildly stringed-together Spanish, and part whatever the fuck you want — then what are ya really doing with yo life, brother?

Numero Two: Now, see, I am the epitome of the great Southern American Dream. I am tan enough to look ethnically ambiguous but I am white enough to not make white people uncomfortable. It’s a win-win hombre. So here’s my second Mcconaugh-tip to you — become white and get a tan, it’s just that easy folks.

Three: Now, what you might not know — might not synthesize when you first happen upon my great physique — and now I don’t blame you, no, no, I’m just saying, I’m just saying I wouldn’t blame you for not knowing that I am . . . actually . . . very . . . fun. I am funny, I am fun, you know what I’m saying brother? I’m a funny person. I make jokes, I know how to wield a joke so it creates laughter in the very deep pits of your stomach that’s so real, so intense, so hilarious, ha ha you know what I mean now, don’t you brother?

I’m funny.

Four: I read, you know homie? Like, read. I don’t read that 50 Shades shit, nah — I read like deep shit, you feel me? I read words on the pages, but they also read me, you know? They read me. You ever read Kafka? Kafka writing to Max Brod, ya feel me brother? Talking about death, tuberculosis, and shit. Awww yeah!! That’s the good stuff right there brother. The Magic Mountain, Thomas Mann — life changing, man. Read that shit brother, read it.

Five: Now let me tell you a story: okay, okay, it’s the year twenty-oh-nine, you follow me? I’ve just finished the very successful Ghosts of Girlfriends Past with the wonderful Jennifer Garner — hey Jen — and I’m just pondering, you know, I’m feeling the feels, I’m doing the searching of my life, okay, of my l i f e. My wife Camila asks me: “Matthew, are you happy?” And I think to myself, “No, no I’m not.” Now, I couldn’t lie to myself if I wanted to, you know, it’s that good Southern upbringing — shout out to my mother and the great city of Houston — and I think: “What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?” And then it hits me — get your life fucking together, man. And so I do.

Now I’m Oscar winner Matthew McConaughey, chyeah, shit brother!

Six: I used to be a Hollywood joke, okay. There’s just no way around it, and I wanna be real with you, homie: I was a joke. Not just to Hollywood, but to myself, too. I didn’t take roles where I had to take my shirt off — no siree — I added that part right in brother. Did that all by myself, all for myself. But you’re going ask me why, Matthew? Why did you want to take your shirt off, Matthew? And I’ve just got three words for you hombre: I look good. Oof, yah, I look fucking good. And I still do, but that takes discipline, see. It’s true I don’t take my shirt off as much anymo’ — in Dallas Buyers Club nobody wanted to see me with my shirt off, I was n a s t y, fuck, but did you see Rustin Cohle in ‘95 — that hair, that ass — I ain’t gonna deny it — I looked good. So, look good too, I believe in you brother.

Numero Sept: I think on my feet all the time, alright — when I’m at award shows, which is a thing I do a lot, I just gotta think on my feet. I gotta be me, and think. Let me tell you a story, once I was at Buffalo, I wasn’t a buffalo, I was in Buffalo — the state — and I was with my son Levi . . . cute kid . . . we were just hiking up some pretty tall mountains when out of nowhere, and when I say “nowhere” I ain’t kidding — out of nowhere — this mountain goat just appears. Now Levi starts screaming, the goat’s huffing, I’m panicking, what do I do? This animal is looking at me dead on, like I’m one of him and he’s one of me and we’re just looking at each other like we’re carnal animals looking into the depths of each other’s souls, right? And I know what’s going on, I feel it, I know what he’s thinking and that’s when I decide that there’s just no two ways around it: so I throw my son Levi over the mountain and then I scream like a hyena and just jump the fuck right out of there.

So be like me; think on your feet.

Eight: Shit, son, you gotta have chill though. Nobody likes somebody with no chill, mkay? When you’re having a panic attack because, you know, you lost your job, or, or you realize that — that one day you’re going to die, or you’ve just watched Interstellar and you’re like why the fuck would Anne Hathaway wanna live on a planet on her own — think this: chill out homie. And you will. That’s a McConauguarantee.

Nine: Smoke weed, brother. Smoke that goddamn weed. There’s a reason why that shit was put on this beautiful, pristine earth we have here. Weed elucidates, it educates, it elevates — there’s a reason it’s called a high, homie — just think of that.

Ten: JKL. Just. Keep. Living. Don’t stop living, homies. Don’t do it — there will be times that the devil, and I mean metaphorically the devil, it could be you, you could be your own devil, ya feel me? You’re thinking I can’t live another day — no, I can’t do this: but you can. Live. Just keep living, hombre, don’t give up.

That’s it homies. Just some easy tips to live yo life with some McConaugh-ease. Try this shit out, and then thank me later brothers (and sisters, I don’t discriminate). Peace out from the McConau-crib.

Watch a dramatic reading of Matthew McConaughey’s tip-filled McConaughe-rant below!

So, I always keep a few live captive humans on my starship for research purposes and well, if I’m being honest, also because it can get pretty lonely in space. I might add that these Homo sapiens represent a pretty diverse array of humanity from various ethnocultural, socioeconomic and gender backgrounds as I’m an equal opportunity Predator. I only really mention this so I don’t come across as completely ignorant as I explain my story.

Anyways, more often than not during the daily probing of my humans, they passively-aggressively comment on the fact that despite me being an alien warrior hailing from the furthest reaches of space, I have human-like “dreadlocks”. One day after I violently forced them to play Space Bingo with me, I revealed to them that for most of my 5679 years, I did not have these dreadlocks and that only in the last few decades did I adopt the stylish dread-like extensions they now see protruding from my central brain sac.

They told me that what I was doing was cultural appropriation and that I was no better than the white humans, particularly the white human celebrities that sport dreadlocks purely for the “trend,” like the human youth monarch known as Kylie Jenner.

I began to wonder if I was truly just as bad.

I mean, I’m definitely worse. Don’t get me wrong. I hunt innocent, intelligent alien life purely for sport. But I meant more in terms of whether I was also guilty of this cultural appropriation.

After some introspection, I realized they were right. I grew out and fashioned my cranial tendrils into ‘dreads’ because I thought it made me look cool. Years prior, I saw that many notable humans including the human Reggae icon Bob Marley had them and I wanted to get in on the trend. This decision was only reinforced more recently after I watched Blank Panther and saw that the apex of human physiology known as Michael B. Jordan sported them as well. Oof Killonger.

Well, I now know that dreadlocks aren’t “just for fun” to quote the Instagram caption of the also physically impressive human known as Zac Efron, when he posted a picture of himself with dreadlocks. As my human prisoners later explained to me, dreadlocks are part of a cultural identity which I don’t have the right to adopt, as a member of a privileged, historically oppressive, violence-seeking, Xenomorph-slaying alien race.

On top of that, I learned that many African American humans are still discriminated against for employment opportunities because of their dreadlocks. And for me to sport them just because I think it adds an extra ‘wow’ factor for when I turn off my cloaking device and theatrically reveal myself to prey, is unacceptable. Furthermore, I’m sure the black human community doesn’t appreciate their dreadlocks being adopted by a maniacal alien with a sphincter for a mouth.

For my insensitive actions I feel much regret. Not the violent alien predation though. No regret there.

This realization led me to contemplate my society’s previous actions even further. I was told that cultural appropriation is when a dominant culture takes an element of a minority culture after having systematically disenfranchised those same people in the past. According to this definition then, I’ve realized that any culture we Predators try to adopt will be considered cultural appropriation as there isn’t a group in this galaxy we war-mongering alien Predators haven’t screwed over and persecuted.

Even the white humans.

One of my fellow Predators, Nadine-X12-Prime has recently started wearing Patagonia jackets, eating Nature Valley and standing still at concerts. Is she appropriating white culture? If Nadine-X12-Prime was a non-white human many would say that it is not cultural appropriation. But since Nadine-X12-Prime is a Predator, who historically preys on the humans that come out of Soul Cycle and Macklemore shows, one could argue that now, her cream-colored Patagonia zip-up is culturally appropriated.

And what about my beloved shoulder mounted plasma canon? Did I culturally appropriate that from the Gorlax people of Jupiter-7 after I pillaged their civilization? To them, that shoulder canon was a religious rite of passage. And I just used it to aimlessly shoot at that California governor. I’m deeply sorry Gorlaxes.

And even the practice itself of unfairly ruling over other groups without their consent? Did I culturally appropriate that from the British humans? My bad.

I think I have a lot of reparations to make. Which is why, as soon as the Earth Sun goes down tonight, I plan to stalk the closest Supercuts human fur cutting establishment and capture a human fur butcher. I will then make him remove my dreadlocks, as my first step towards being more culturally sensitive and aware of my alien privilege.

Then, I will of course add him to my collection.

So, you are a woman with literary aspirations. You want to write the Great American Novel or work your way into the elite halls of publishing. You believe all you need is talent, hard work, and a little bit of luck.

You are wrong.

Publishing is a snake pit filled with venomous but charming creatures in rumpled suits. This handy guide* will help you spot the cons, the fakes, and the shady characters you’ll encounter on your journey. You can’t avoid them all, but knowledge is power.

1. The Pig in a Poke. A trite and common gambit. A man of middling talent is given a seven-figure advance and major marketing support for his debut novel. The plot is a blatant rip-off of a previously published novel from a female author. When she points this out, he pokes her in the eye. The literati cheer.
2. The Pyramid Scheme. A few powerful white male editors at major publishing houses buddy up with a handful of white male agents representing a boatload of white male writers. The writers get publishing deals, the agents get rich, the editors get richer and everyone agrees it’s a shame that so few women or people of color are published, but what can they do about it?
3. The Shell Game. Three upmarket, suspense fiction books featuring unreliable (drunk) female narrators top the bestseller list. The authors use pseudonyms like B.F. Warren and L.M. James. Your challenge? To find the one female-driven narrative written by an actual woman. (Spoiler: there is no actual woman.)
4. The Sting. A writer and low-level publishing house employee lies about his credentials, his experience, and his history to blaze his way to a high paying job and a lucrative book contract. When it looks like he might be caught, he invents a health crisis and a series of family tragedies as a diversion. Even when everyone discovers he’s a liar, nothing bad happens to him and he remains wealthy by literary standards. It stings.
5. The Counterfeit. A man writes a memoir chronicling his drug addiction. Oprah tells everyone to buy his book. When the book is exposed as fabricated claptrap, he goes on Oprah for the second time to cry literary crocodile tears. He writes more books, which somehow get published, and he makes a bunch of money, and no one believes he is sorry that he lied to Oprah.
6. The Bait and Switch. A literary maven appears on the scene in your town. She shows up at parties. She hosts literary fundraisers. She offers to read your manuscript, to introduce you to her agent, to get your book into the hands of powerful people if you’ll just donate to this very worthy cause she has invented or put down a deposit on a writing retreat in Italy that is never going to happen. She is a fierce woman with pink hair and cool glasses, so you trust her. She’s not like all the men who’ve lied and scammed their way into your literary heart. Except, of course, she is.
7. The Charm Offensive. A somewhat famous and critically acclaimed author teaches at literary festivals across the country. He says your writing has real potential. He offers to meet with you about your manuscript. But when you meet, he is drunk and his hand keeps drifting to your knee and you understand that the only thing of yours he’s ever read or will ever read is your name-tag, which is conveniently located right above your breasts.
8. The Slow Burn. An awards committee announces its longlist and brags that it’s the most diverse group of writers in the history of the award. Articles are written about the extraordinary inclusiveness of the list. The committee is praised for its open mindedness. The shortlist contains three white men and one woman of color. A man wins.
9. The Spitball. You work at a major publishing house and your boss calls you in to spitball some ideas for marketing the Summer releases. You give him all your best thoughts in a carefully prepared and meticulously researched report. He thanks you and then presents your ideas as his own at the next editor’s meeting. (Just kidding, he doesn’t actually thank you.)
10. The Upchuck. You are in a writing workshop with five men, all of whom insist you could learn a lot by reading the novels of Chuck Palahniuk. You vomit.

* This is not in any way a comprehensive guide. Proceed at your own risk.

Let’s guess if the feedback below came from Great British Bake Off Judges or my editor:  

1. Underbaked
2. Raw, totally raw
3. The layers are there…at least
4. Good idea but not executed as well as it could have been
5. Crispy all the way through
6. This isn’t finished
7. It’s a bit boring
8. Not enough proofing
9. A work of art
10. Definitely a mouthful
11. Very rich
12. You had so much time to work on this. What happened?
13. Not bad
14. This batch is inconsistent
15. How whimsical
16. Disappointing
17. I could picture this in a Parisian shop
18. It’s perfect
19. Way too sweet
20. I expected more from you, to be quite honest

I

Hear Santa’s sleigh with the bells-

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they forecast joy that’s coming,

In the dis-play at the mall.

While the stores with music thrumming,

And the Christmas carol humming,

While it’s barely even fall.

Spending cash, cash, cash.

Though my purchases seem rash,

It’s that time of year when my credit card bill swells.

All the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells.

II

Hear the song, “Jingle Bells”—

Catchy bells!

What a tale of Muzak, now, their repetition tells

As I rush to do these chores!

Countless presents, countless stores.

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of my folly,

In a mad interpolation demanding I stay jolly,

Making my skin feel crawly

With a new hatred of holly

And a resolute desire

To shout at Target’s newest hire.

Awful bells, bells, bells.

What a tale their inanity tells

Of despair!

How they clang and ring and roar.

What cloyingness they outpour

On the bosom of the nutmeg-scented air.

And my heart distinctly tells,

How desperation sinks and swells,

As they knell, knell, knell,

All the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells.

While the stores with music thrumming, And the Christmas carol humming, While it’s barely even fall.
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III

Hear the tolling of the bells-

The doorbells!

What a world of frustration their interruption tells!

In the silent calm of night.

Oh, carolers! I feign delight

At the sentimental blitheness of their tone.

For every song that floats

From their cozy, be-scarfed throats

Recalls my own

Forgotten joy.

Now my grown-up heart’s a stone.

I never dream of sugarplums,

Only of Amazon orders that never come.

And with all the songs about Noels,

My forced smile grows so numb.

Why isn’t this eggnog spiked with rum?

To the Salvation Army bells,

“I gave last week!” I yell.

To the reindeer with the bells,

I turn the other way and run,

And their king is he who knows,

And he “ho, ho, ho’s”

From the North Pole where he dwells.

And the jollity he compels

Never wanes but only swells!

Forget the exhaustion it impels,

I must obey the bells,

All those bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells.

Oh the jingling and the jangling of the bells.

Thousands of years ago, the intricate physical and spiritual pedagogy of yoga was codified in the The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, but that book is outdated, and harder to understand than Shakespeare! As yoga has evolved into an international phenomenon no longer relegated to hot, dusty, far-flung countries, it’s become clear that yoga philosophy, too, is in dire need of an upgrade. Nourishing inner peace, and combining mind, body and all of creation still matter, of course, but the practice has shifted focus, and today’s yogis are all about building community—and self-esteem.

Enter Instagram, the digital ashram of the twenty-first century, where yogis gather to heighten their self-worth, celebrate their good health and fortune, and foster their flock of oh-so-flexible disciples. In case you’re keen to join the movement, we’ve rounded up the best advice from today’s hottest yogis on how to showcase your most supple, sinewy, ready-for-your-close-up self on the mat, on the ‘gram, and in the world.

1. Elevate your vibration. All the hype—all of it—is real. No more gluten, no more sugar, no more carbs. We assume you’ve already cleansed your karma of animal product. The more foods you eliminate, the higher you will hum, and the lighter you will feel #livingyourbestlife.
2. #Speakyourtruth. Once you’ve whittled your daily consumption down to the barest of leafy necessities, let the world know. Spread the good word on kale! It’s our collective duty to inspire the overfed masses to give hunger a try. You—yes you—can turn starvation into a social media movement! A little yogi birdie told us that Instagram ‘friends’ are buyable in bulk—and oh so cheap!—from Russian wholesalers. Simply get your new drove of followers to donate one dollar for every meal you renounce, and when they don’t respond, publicly denounce their spirituality void. #notsoblessed
3. Make your #soulsweat. Find a Power Vinyasa class that costs at least $25 per hour (it’s way easier than it sounds), and promises at least 25 chaturangas. You know, the yoga push ups? Otherwise you won’t bang nearly enough calories for your buck.
4. See yourself as you really are. Sometimes self-care is stretchy! Take a deep breath, steady your gaze, straighten your spine, and reward yourself with a pair of leggings that cost more than your weekly paycheck. You’ll feel so good about yourself, you’ll be bound to pop a handstand in the middle of rush hour traffic. Post that and #theywillcome. (To your Instagram page, that is).

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   A little yogi birdie told us that Instagram ‘friends’ are buyable in bulk —and oh so cheap!—from Russian wholesalers.
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5. Expand your practice beyond the mat. Yoga isn’t just about pushing through painful micro-tears in your hamstrings until you can finally extend your leg 170 degrees. A beautiful way to expand your practice is to become an essential oils advocate #wellnesswarrior. With the right brand of oily aromas, you’re not just enhancing your wellness, you’re curing and preventing chronic diseases that have stumped Western science for decades. Build your business by pushing shockingly expensive — but very worth it — oils on friends, family, and unsuspecting strangers. (And no, we know what you’re thinking you naughty thing — those organic, discount Whole Foods oils just won’t do!)
6. Don’t be afraid to #shineyourlight. Go ahead: sign up for that 200-hour teacher training. It’s an inundated, but growing field, and the best part is you don’t have to learn the Sanskrit names for poses anymore! (Why waste precious breath on fumbling through adho mukha svanasana when you can just say D-Dog?) You’re never too young or inexperienced to teach yoga.
7. Manifest your spirituality. Don a bhindi and hop on a flight to the Motherland. Take a handstand pic in front of the Taj Mahal. Find rebirth by bathing in the Ganges, or any of India’s multitude of holy rivers. Pay no mind to naysayers, the laughing locals or human feces floating by. Experience the magic of kirtan and chant to bloodthirsty Bronze Age deities alongside other soul-seeking Westerners. Just don’t forget to bring your own mat, as many rolls of toilet paper as can fit in your suitcase, and plenty of hand sanitizer. This is India, after all, not Equinox!
8. #Yogainfluencer. Yes, you too can change the world by posting daily photos of yourself nailing inversions, breathtaking backbends, and strenuous arm balances against idyllic backgrounds. Don’t forget to round out your page with inspirational sayings (preferably by the Buddha, or people with Indian-sounding names), luscious pics of bright green smoothies, and simple silhouettes of yourself meditating in the pink glow of a sunset.

In this wild and wooly world, we all need the occasional reminder to look inward. #yogaeverydamnday. Now hurry up and hit that handstand. The Taj Mahal awaits!

It’s 3:20 a.m. and Jocelyn Richards* and I are meeting for coffee in an abandoned shipyard — her choice. I’m nursing my cold-brew, wondering if she’s going to show, when there’s movement out of the corner of my eye, and there she is — hiding in the shadows.

Dressed casually in a tattered sweatshirt, the hood pulled up to match her hooded eyes, Jocelyn has made it apparent why she’s so successful in her field: you never see her coming. Her face is natural, her fingernails bare except for neat crescents of blood, blurring, as she nervously drums the splintered shipping container we sit on. She’s jittery, even though I’m the only one with coffee!

“Thanks so much for meeting me,” I say. “Can I just start by saying how refreshing it is to see a woman in this business?”

Jocelyn offers a terse reply. A grunt, actually. She’s not the chattiest, but, hey, it’s her actions, not her words, that brought me to our shipyard meeting this morning.

“When you’ve kidnapped your latest victim and you bring them home, tie them up, and pull the burlap sack off their head. Are they surprised to see a woman standing in front of them? Do you ever feel like they’re holding their breath, waiting for a man to enter the basement?”

“Maybe,” says Jocelyn, as she starts to file her incisors with a nail file. In a career like hers, looks are everything. Like most women in demanding positions, Jocelyn’s appearance determines how seriously people take her: it decides whether or not a victim will scream when they see her coming; whether or not she’ll get the leading role in someone’s nightmare; and whether or not her legacy will live on in campfire ghost stories and Lifetime dramas.

“In your position, the element of surprise is so important for your success. You have to surprise your victims, keep them on their toes, trick them into your van, but tell me: what do you do to surprise yourself? How do you surprise…you?”

I search her face, waiting for an answer. In a career so focused on other people, Jocelyn probably needs self-care more than anyone.

Jocelyn picks at the shipping box, wedging splinters of wood under her short nails. She stares at me with cold, hard eyes, probably impressed with how good of a question I just asked. “I surprise myself…with who I choose next.”

“I love it,” I say. And I really do. How great to have so much autonomy over where your job takes you.

I sat down with the most successful female serial killer in the business to talk clear skin, carbs, and creating success in a male-dominated field.
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“Do you ever think about taking a break from it all—the hours, the stress, the constant travel—to start a family? I can’t even imagine what it’s like dating in your field. I mean, where do you even meet someone?” I say. Family hasn’t come up yet, but it’s well-known that behind every successful woman is an overbearing mother asking for grandkids.

“I have kids. Or, I should say, had,” she growls, her breath sultry with the potent smell of meat. There’s a small red speck on Jocelyn’s chin, perhaps a droplet of blood from a long workday.

“You have something on your chin,” I say, pointing to the speck. She raises her fingers to wipe it away and, just like that, I feel like an old friend: one girlfriend helping another, like we’re drunk at the bathroom sinks together, saving each other from wardrobe emergencies. She licks the blood off her finger with a swipe of her tongue and a smile, her sharp incisors winking. A smile meant for me—her ally.

Now that we’re so close, I think it’s time to address the elephant in the room. I’ve been dying to ask, and it’s clear that Jocelyn has been dying to answer.

“How often do you think about the wage gap in your career? How do feel knowing that there’s a man out there doing the same thing as you, but still getting feared more from his victims?” I ask, my felt-point pen poised above my Moleskin. But the only answer I get is silence.

I look up from my pad and just like that, she’s gone. She’s disappeared into the shadows of the dockyard, leaving me with chills and a lingering disappointment that #MeToo didn’t come up more in the interview.

*the subject’s name has been changed to protect her identity

1. Keep your business within the stall under two and a half minutes. Any longer and the Cisgendered person becomes suspicious. If you still need to go, use a different bathroom.
2. Be as quiet or still as possible. They can’t see movement.
3. Use as little toilet paper as possible. I mean, they’re judging the shit out of you already, don’t give them more of a reason. This is more the case in any government building or library. They don’t want their taxpayer money going to a Transgirl’s ass.
4. Similarly, when washing your hands, sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in your head twice, but don’t use too much water. Use minimal soap. When drying your hands, make sure you’re thorough but also not using the air dryer too long or too many paper towels. They’re analyzing how many resources you’re taking up.
5. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES MAKE EYE CONTACT.
6. If there is no one in the bathroom at the time you enter your stall you may act as if it was a single stall bathroom. But remain vigilant…
7. If someone enters the bathroom while you are in the stall you must believe they are a Cisgendered person.
8. If you see another Transgirl in the bathroom, even if you personally know them, you must not acknowledge their presence as stated in Article 3, Section 21.b of The Official Transgirl Handbook. The only exception is when there is no one else in the bathroom and you know the other Transgirl personally. But this is risky since a Cisgendered person may enter the bathroom at any moment.
9. In fact, don’t talk to or acknowledge anyone when inside a multi-stall bathroom. The only exception is when a Cisgendered person says “Hello.” If they do, you must greet them as well. If they ask you any questions you must respond but make your answer brief.

Following these steps is critical to maintaining the slim levels of respect we have from the Cisgendereds. This respect helps alleviate some of the pains of awkward family reunions, co-workers, and those people who you sorta vaguely knew in High School and thinks of you as one of the Cisgendereds. Keeping the respect of Cisgendered persons in bathrooms is a collective effort! They will hold any slight misstep against all Transgirls complaining about it to no end. We must look out for our fellow Transsisters (Article 1, Section 7). I don’t care if they don’t respect or see all my identities and lifestyle choices,  I just want to be able to have some sort of passing respect and to not worry about pissing or shitting my pants.

Or, y’know, be physically assaulted.

In the current social climate of the #MeToo movement, men are under siege. We really have it rough; all of a sudden we have to think about, like, what we say, how we’re perceived, and if we’re safe. Who lives like that?! At this point we’re lucky if we dominate just 99% of corporate culture, politics, and the world at large. It’s like we’re barely running everything anymore.

It’s not even safe for nice guys who make an innocent mistake with an unconscious lady friend. Did you know that in almost .0067% of sexual misconduct cases, dudes have had to start their WHOLE lives over? They have nothing but the clothes on their back, their privilege, and an extensive network of other privileged men to help them get by!

If you find yourself on the wrong side of a sexual misconduct accusation, use this helpful list of predator-friendly careers to get back on your feet:

• Become CEO of a company

• Become CFO of a company

• Become COO of a company

• Become an accountant

• Become a lawyer

• Become a financial planner

• Become a professional athlete

• Become an HR executive

• Become a marketing executive

• Become anything ending in “executive”

• Become a dog trainer

• Become a coach for olympians

• Become a hollywood director

• Become a hollywood producer

• Become a professional actor

• Become a professional comedian

• Become a professional musician

• Become a professional at whatever you were doing before just at a slightly different company

• Run for president

• Run for senate

• Run for governor

• Run for mayor

• Run for any political office you haven’t already run for; a simple change in title goes a long way toward making people forget you might’ve been a creep

• Start your own chapter of MPAT (Male Predators Alone Together)

• Start your own human trafficking group

• Start your own neo-nazi organization

• Join an emerging group of white entrepreneurs called “terrorists”

• Take some time to reflect and educate yourself on your own privilege. Open up a dialogue with those who can help illuminate it for you to start healing your broken point of vi…HAHAHA, just kidding! What a waste of time!

• If you’re really backed into a corner, take a deep breath…and just continue living your life like it didn’t happen. With some luck you’ll still have tons of privilege to coast on the rest of your days.

And don’t forget, it’s totally reasonable to be bitter. When you’re having a bad day find solace in the fact that your gender still controls more money, power, and influence than ANY WOMAN, EVER! Whew.