Hiatus: PPOP takes advantage of FMLA, retains rights to domain name with their own money

Our dear, dear Readers,


How we adore you so for trudging along both sides of the line we call addiction and mental illness with us through these last few years; for these last few months, we have been absent but not absent-minded and think of you often.

Because this is a blog we host for free on WordPress under a domain we pay for out of own pauper-like, debt-heavy millennial pockets, we are entitled both to stop posting at random, and to claim to be taking advantage of the Family and Medical Leave Act. We are simply acting on the former, but doesn’t it sound more professional, more “legit”, more pathos-inducing (hey, Bryan. . . we don’t feel good and need some cuddles!) to claim the latter?

We have grown and evolved. Thus, our mental illnesses have followed. Our trusty shadows, yet we can trust them no longer as they bedim past the point of self-deprecative humor and what they adumbrate requires real world attention. Though we tame different tigers, a period of darkness has befallen both sisters of the honoured House of the Pen Pals. We pray (to a god that does not exist) that you will wait a few more weeks for us as our abilities to transmute darkness into sensual, silly, stirring satire return.

We are okay, and we will be back. We will be mostly benzo free; we will be immersed in CBT, sexual trauma therapy, group therapy, and responsible psychiatric care; we will talk about meditation; we will push supplements named things like “lion’s mane extract” on you; we will look into orgasmic running and other types of Portland poppycock; and we will, assuredly, still be on an opulent amount of adderall.

Until then,

Warmly and forever yours in spellbinding existential fear,

We are:

Pen Pals On Pills



Are you getting coal in your stocking this Christmas?

Since the simple days of Socrates, the lines between right and wrong have become increasingly blurred. What’s manipulative and what’s resourceful? How dark can a white lie be?

Be prepared for the likelihood that you’ve been deemed “naughty” due to unsavory behavior this year. Here’s a quick, easy evaluation to determine your ranking:

  • You consistently feel one of these emotions, even if you can’t pinpoint the cause:




  • You don’t remember most of this year besides the blowout sale on bourbon at Total Wine, and that was in February.
  • You didn’t know who David Bowie was until you heard he died.
  • You’re getting everyone snowflake-patterned shot glasses this year because Marshall’s was selling a 12-pack for just $4!
  • You lied about your income to get free Plan B at Planned Parenthood. Then you sold it at retail price to a 15-year-old.
  • You posted more than 30 selfies to a single social media channel (not including Snapchat, obviously)
  • You live in rural Florida.
  • You showed up at Emma’s 26th birthday party with a case of Coors Light.

If any of these pertain to you, or bring to mind similar transgressions, you have a 90% chance of receiving a stocking full of coal.

Of course, several unknowable factors persist:

  • Is this character judgement cumulative or just based on this year?
  • Is owning 2 vibrators considered adultery?
  • What if I don’t have a chimney?

So you’re a cold-hearted snake and it’s too late to rectify the damage you’ve wrought–but aren’t the holidays about joy, and doesn’t joy come from being yourself? Isn’t rewarding kindness with material goods a bit contradictory? How come The North Pole owns both Exxon Mobil and the National Iranian Oil Company and they still pass out coal?

Society has it all wrong, not you. Go ahead, be a reckless bitch all year round. You have nothing to lose.

Trading with Joe: Bacon Pizza


In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.  And the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the deep, and the Spirit of God moved upon the waters. Then God said, Let there be light; and there was light.  And God saw that the light was good, and God separated the light from the darkness. And God called the Light, Day, and the darkness he called Night. So the evening and the morning were the first day. On the second day, God created Joe, and saw that he was more than good; in fact, he was so great, God traded with him. And so here we are, many millennia later, to share the divinity that is: Trader Joe’s, our own little slice of Eden right here in the years of AD.

This is the first installment of our newest creation, our food and recipe blog—in time, be it today, tomorrow, or the day that you make the bacon pizza we are about to describe, you too will see that it is good.

While the intention is for this to be a recipe blog, please understand that on our pitiable postgrad budgets, it is often hard to gather the funds and motivation for real gourmet meals. However, we never allow those obstacles to hinder our creativity!

We’d like to start off by sharing with you the result of one spontaneous evening and entirely legal substance abuse:

Pizza á Baconné


1 lb bag of TJ’s Fresh Pizza Dough, which tastes like one thousand Arabian horses galloping on your tongue

1 jar TJ’s Three Cheese Pomodoro Pasta Sauce, with a flavor akin to a lumberjack felling an entire redwood forest on top of your taste buds

1 bag of TJ’s blend of Mozzarella, Parmesan, and Cheddar, which will leave your lips feeling as though you have just kissed the succulence of original sin intermixed with the passion of the cult of Dionysus

1 red onion, 1 tomato & 1 handful of spinach, a combo that presents to your palate an Aztec god rubbing your salty skin down with the finest of rattlesnake venom infused oils

And, finally -nay- crucially:

4 strips of TJ’s Applewood smoked bacon, which will have you squealing with as much delight as the pig from whom it was made squealed when he found out that his legacy was secured in becoming this delectable form


Flour the crust and roll into whatever shape you so desire. Spread the sauce and sprinkle the cheese. Cook bacon as directed, then crumble and disperse onto pizza. Chop onion, tomato, and spinach, then sauté in the bacon grease—then put it on the pizza as well. Place the pizza in the oven, heated to 450 Fahrenheit, and cook for twelve minutes; or, until the crust is as golden as a Trojan sunset before its civilization met its demise, and the cheese bubbles like the cauldron of the Weird Sisters.

PPOP Tip #1: Use an oven mitt (or two if you’re apprehensive) to remove pizza from oven. It will be hot.

PPOP Tip #2: Remember to turn the oven off!

PPOP Tip #3: Eat your pizza before someone else does.


That is all for now, and as we like to say,

“If you put enough guacamole on it, you won’t even notice how bad it tastes!”

Ode to Cheese

You know that cozy feeling of a thick woolen sweater?

I find the same warmth in a big block of cheddar


For fancy occasions though, I choose gruyere

Nothing like strong odors at a black tie affair


If you were to offer me some gorgonzola

I’d be so overjoyed that I’d accidentally pull a


Hamstring while throwing a one-man dance party

Don’t even get me started on a slice of havarti


If it’s just a few of us hangin’ at a low-key kickback

I wouldn’t say no to some Monterey Jack


As for lonely nights, I just sprinkle on shaved parmesan

And suddenly find all my worries are gone


When my attempts to extort information fall short

I bolster my words with a mouthful of Roquefort


Mozzarrella, was it you who lost your glass slipper at the ball?

Or was that another Ella, I cannot recall


Provolone and swiss make for turkey sandwich bliss

And it would be rude-a to not include-a gouda

But cottage cheese, fuck you

“Make Life Your Dildo”: Registration now open

The modern world has a yeast infection. You don’t even realize because to you, it’s always smelled like that. The good news: PenPalsOnPills is hosting our first annual women’s retreat, “Make Life Your Dildo”. This weekend-long enlightenment series held in Buellton, CA will include several self-care workshops designed to educate and empower even the most pathetic females out there. If you don’t think this event is for you, then it definitely is.

Here are just some of the cutting-edge activities on the agenda:

Deconstructing the Myth of the Cute Top

Bring your favorite shirt and see where it ranks on our completely objective Cuteness Scale.

You’re not Basic

Delete your Instagram before making an acai bowl. The rest of the workshop is unplanned, as we cannot predict how you’ll fill the time you would have otherwise spent filtering your #eatingclean photo.

Sole Cycle

Ride a road bike uphill alone in Humboldt County, no music or directions allowed.

36 Whiskeys

Develop the alcohol tolerance of a truck driver.

Punt like a Cunt

Play one-on-one flag football against a real-live lesbian. The tournament doesn’t end until you win.

Keynote speaker Cate Blanchett: “Galadriel vs. Bob Dylan”

Award-winning actress explores the strengths and weaknesses of two of her most acclaimed roles, then fights herself live on stage.

Queen of the Ranch

Master the art of Reverse Cowgirl with an introductory lecture on theory, followed by an interactive class and final exam.

The first 10 to register receive a complimentary orange paisley pantsuit and autographed DVD of “Carol” starring Cate Blanchett. The second 10 receive an unsigned VHS of “Elizabeth”, also starring Blanchett. Just email PenPalsOnPills@gmail.com with your credit card information to sign up!

Sponsored by 7/11 brand tampons
*Show your ticket at checkout for 75 cents off a bag of Funyuns


Texting acronyms that actually describe life

When was the last time you were actually ROFL? No one’s that funny, and floors are usually gross. We here at PenPalsOnPills encourage you to keep it real, so we’ve provided a list of text acronyms that let you quickly and genuinely communicate to your friends how you’re doing and what you’re feeling throughout the day. Start using them today! Don’t worry if no one knows what you’re saying–that’s what LOL is for. 

SODI–Smiling outside, dying inside

ARLWTTL–At red light, waiting to turn left

DTBWFM–Down to binge-watch Will Ferrell movies

TBTSTC–Too busy taking selfies to care

MILO–Maybe, if the lights are off

SWFMP. WTFD –Still waiting for my pizza. What the fuck, Dominoes

PIHIAHS–Pretending I’m a housewife in Anthropologie’s home section

LOLTGBA–Laughing out loud to get Bryan’s attention

LITDA–Lying in the dark alone

WTCTE–Wanting this conversation to end

TNTF–Trying not to fart

STWS–Sorry, that wasn’t sarcasm

10 things more real than pumpkin spice lattes

If you’ve recently had the pleasure of strolling down the glittering streets of upper middle class suburbia, you’ve passed more than one Starbucks and seen the same hand-drawn chalkboard ad for “The Real PSL”. Perhaps you’ve wondered how a pumpkin-flavored beverage has more Instagram followers than you. Or maybe you’re more preoccupied with the fact that people are walking around drinking liquid pie. Or you’re like me, and the Pumpkin Spice Latte’s self-proclaimed “realness” has led you to question how many other lies you guzzle down each day with a pump of artificially flavored syrup.

  1. Racial equality. Harriet Tubman may have replaced Andrew Jackson on the $20 bill but that doesn’t change the fact that as a white female I could talk my way out of setting fire to a jewelry store then trading its goods and employees for nuclear weapons. Mostly because I’d be talking to the neighborhood watch volunteers, as the real police are busy arresting a black man for taking out his trash after 5pm.
  2. Democracy. In general, I love college. Just not when it’s electoral. Where’s the alcohol? Where’s my voting power? I guess I got to the party too late. Thomas Jefferson would furrow his ginger brow in disdain at the lack of respectable bumper stickers available for this year’s election.
  3. Teen girls’ reactions upon winning Adele tickets on the radio. “Oh my god I can’t believe it. This is incredible.” Is it? We all know you wish they were for Drake.
  4. Unlimited bread baskets at Outback Steakhouse. As it turns out, they ask you to leave after 43 baskets and one Diet Coke .
  5. Ariana Grande’s half-ponytail. It’s always there. I doubt she was born with it. This one’s quite the chin-scratcher.
  6. My neighbor Nikki’s tan. “I was kayaking off the coast of Uruguay last week and it seems I got a little sun.” Yeah right, you’re the color of Taco Bell hot sauce and you hate temperate climates, you spray-painted whore.
  7. Nikki’s husband’s business trip. When was the last time a 7th grade algebra teacher had business in the heart of Bangkok? Someone’s trying to deep-fry his rice noodle in fish sauce, good lord! Or should I say, mee krob!
  8. The Bay Area’s love for NPR. Apparently not everyone is as enchanted by Kai Ryssdal as I am, since STOMP cover bands on Bart received more donations during one instrumental rendition of Toto’s “Africa” than KQED’s pledge drives did this entire month.
  9. Bryan’s restraining order against me. Paper has a really poignant way of burning to dust, doesn’t it?
  10. Retail sales associates. “Wow, that dress was made for you.” Actually it was made for 12 cents an hour by Indonesian children who have no idea I exist. But damn, it does look good on me.

By all means, enjoy the flavors of autumn in a toasty paper cup. Just remember: the PSL is only as real as you make it, and you can actually order it any time of year as long as you’re wearing a velour jumpsuit.

An open letter to men, regarding Chinese takeout

I keep many thoughts to myself while indulging in a taste of the Orient, and it’s not because of the cashew chicken clogging my windpipe.

A girl is at her most vulnerable while consuming Chinese takeout: when alone, the room is likely dark, sunlight blocked by blankets pinned to the walls, limiting visibility. Last-last night’s mascara has seeped into the creases below the eyes on night one, then back into the eyeballs on night two, further obstructing sight. Deodorant has not been applied for over 48 hours, masking the scent of any approaching predator. The DVD menu of 10 Things I Hate About You is blaring the same 15 seconds of Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me” on repeat, overpowering the sound of an axe shattering the kitchen window.

When accompanied by a man-friend, vulnerability takes on an entirely new meaning. A twist of circumstances has led to us selecting a dining genre that is generally reserved for suburban children on busy school nights, businessmen having airport breakfasts, or self-loathing 20-something women at 3pm on Saturdays. Now that we’re here, let me tell you what I think:

Don’t tell me I “can’t actually eat all of that”. Regardless of what my previous intentions were, now that you’ve made this asinine statement I’m determined to prove you wrong.

If there’s an odd number of potstickers, I get the extra, even if I’m just saving it for later.

Your comment about the saturated fat in orange chicken is almost as unwelcome as your incorrect pronunciation of “General Tso”. I may be just a white girl but I at least have the dignity to verse myself in common American-Chinese dishes, or else keep silent.

Trying to divide our meal into “first” and “second” servings is ignorant and futile. This is an ongoing, overlapping process where beginnings and ends perpetually blur, and if you aren’t okay with that, you can stop after your “first” helping, good sir.

If I want to grip two chopsticks in each hand and shovel noodles at my face in haphazard heaps, let me.

If you think the grease dripping down my chin onto my shirt is unappealing, you shouldn’t have bought me Chinese food. If you didn’t buy me Chinese food, why the hell are you in the room with me while I eat it? Four entrees, two appetizers and a side of rice costs less than $20, so if you aren’t down to cover that, good luck paying for your Uber home, asshole.

And with that, I’m going to open both of the fortune cookies because you have no future and I control my own destiny.

Shopping for your next wedding? Try a bridal romper

Sure, it’s as balmy as a Louisiana plumber’s buttcrack outside, but if you’re a bride-to-be, don’t sweat it: you can stay cool and totally on-trend with a bridal romper. That’s right! Wedding gowns are so 16th century and it’s about time someone realized it.

I don’t know about you, but my last few weddings were an absolute nightmare because of my traditional dress. The first time, the skirt of my gown had so many billowing layers I could barely dance to Shaggy’s timeless song “Angel” (ft. Rayvon), and I managed to pee on every layer because my bridesmaids — whose sole purpose is to assist in urination — weren’t actually my friends, they were my second cousins, and both male.

Pee isn’t the worst stain you could get on your dress, especially if you’re properly hydrated — more and more brides are choosing champagne over white these days anyway. But don’t get me started on my fourth wedding.

Looks like you got me started. I’m obliged to elaborate.

As I glided down the aisle to the instrumental version of Hilary Duff’s “Come Clean”, I suddenly realized that Yakov, the man whom I was about to wed, was not the one for me. The two days I’d known him had been sensational, but not in the lovestruck way, more in the carnally orgasmic way. Our language barrier hadn’t yet been a problem, but I realized how difficult hosting dinner parties would be when he couldn’t speak or understand a word of English. Who would brag about my scrapbooking talents or narrate slideshows of our trip to Japan? What would the Thornton family say? I glanced at the Thorntons in the pew to my right. Tiffany Thornton was staring me down with the Botoxed scrutiny of a rehydrated raisin investigating a murder. Who would delegate such responsibility to a raisin? I knew it was now or never.

I turned and ran.

At least, I tried to. I would have made my escape, had it not been for the intricately woven train of my antique wedding gown. The delicate lace had maliciously wrapped itself around my diamond-studded stiletto and was ensnared on one of the crystalline spikes. As I spun around, I came tumbling down face-first into the ring-bearer, who in this case was a Clydesdale horse.

Let me briefly explain the Clydesdale, in case you’re wondering. The night before, while planning our wedding, Yakov and I had been watching television and a Wells Fargo commercial came on. If I weren’t such a lady I would delve into detail about the ways Yakov ravaged every hole in my body, but I’ll let you and your imagination have the fun. For a reason Yakov could not explain — at least in English — Clydesale horses made him as horny as a high school Attendance Office secretary. I’m all about consummation, so we booked that damn horse.

Back to Wedding 4: the Clydesdale proceeded to trample me into the ground and I lost the ability to move and speak for a few months. The ceremony continued as I lay unconscious, and to this day I am still reluctantly married to Yakov.

This all could have been avoided if my attire had allowed me to run the way I so yearned to. With a bridal romper, you can dance, skip, and sprint away from your own wedding whenever you please, without the hassle of misogynistic tulle spoiling your chance at happiness.

Interested? Check out David’s Bridal. David, unlike most men, has acknowledged a bride’s right to leap about recklessly on her last day of freedom. I’m most definitely choosing a bridal romper for my next wedding, once I figure out this Yakov situation.

Exclusive interview with neighbor who films me through window

I had the opportunity to sit down with Dylan, my enigmatic neighbor across the street whom I often catch videotaping me from his front porch as I change into my pajamas. Despite seeing his shadowed silhouette several times I’d never had the courage to approach him, so you could say I was a bit star-struck. He strode out to meet me on the curb in front of his house and as we began to chat I struggled to conceal both my fangirl jitters and can of Mace.

How would you describe this film?

I’d say it’s sort of The Virgin Suicides meets Alice in Wonderland. I’m abandoning the societal construction of privacy for a guerilla style approach to the classic surburban America dystopia trope. The plot centers around a young woman who spends her evenings alone in her room watching bootleg movies online, occasionally watering her plant and changing her clothes. The majority of the film is shot through her window to emphasize her isolation, interspersed with my own hand-drawn animated scenes and experimental erotic claymation.

What inspired you to create this piece?

People leave their blinds up, you can see right in. Sometimes when I go in for a close-up tracking shot I’ll see the window is, in fact, ajar, so I’ll just keep the shot going right into the interior of the house and those spontaneous decisions have created some of my favorite scenes. I have the privilege of capturing that genuine shock and terror that you just can’t get from actors, and this raw emotion has inspired me to continue my work.

Who are your mentors?

Oh that’s a tough one. If I had to narrow it down to just one I’d say Boo Radley, Ted Bundy and Ben Affleck.

That’s three people.

What do you mean?

You named three people.

That I did.

Why these three?

If I told you I’d have to kill you. Do you want that? Do you want me to kill you?

No, thank you. What would you say was the biggest challenge in producing this film?

Probably trying to breathe quietly.

What do you think the public’s reaction will be to your film?

It’s hard to say, you know, because I haven’t actually been out in public for almost 18 years. You’re actually the first person I’ve spoken to in 5. Last time was when I bought that crowbar from Ace Hardware. Jared was his name. Great guy. Hope he’s still alive. But to answer your question I think the public will appreciate the community bond I’m portraying here–mi casa es su casa, if you will. That’s actually the working title right now. I hope this film encourages others to break barriers–both societally and physically–in the name of art.

Do you have plans for a next project?

My ankle bracelet limits me to a 500-foot radius of my house, which I view as an artistic challenge. I’m planning an investigative documentary filmed with tiny cameras attached to the collars of neighborhood dogs. People trust their dogs with everything. They think, who will my dog tell? With my camera strategy, imagine what I’ll learn. I’m calling this one “Betrayal”.

Mi Casa es Su Casa is scheduled to premier on Dylan’s MySpace page this fall.