Chapter 3 of Type A+



An excerpt from my first book, Type A+.finalbookcover


The beginning of February is always a little depressing. The appeal of having just returned to school after Christmas break has worn off, most rush events are over, so the social aspect is gone, and yet ridiculous amounts of new pledge class training and initiation rites begin to take over your life, and it’s freaking cold. On top of that, sunset is around 4:30 PM in central time, making nights out a little hard to sustain after a six o’clock pitch-black, blackout dinner. All in all, it’s enough to make you too depressed to make it outdoors or to the gym, leaving you with your 20-pound winter weight gain.

Volunteering is no different. Rolling into the clinic on a particularly cold day, I geared up to be treated like your average criminal, performing thankless grunt work for angry/overworked doctors. To my delight, the waiting room was nearly empty when I arrived, save for a scantily-clad woman who was probably headed over to her late shift as a stripper after hitting up our free clinic for condoms or a morning after pill.

“Twenty bucks says she’s here for birth control,” a man whispers to me, flirtatiously sliding my hair behind my ear. I’m a little startled but rather excited to see Dr. Eliot, batting his ridiculously full, yet perfectly manly, dark eyelashes. I am surprised to see him. He’s not on the schedule as a volunteer physician for the evening, but he explains that he switched with someone so he could see his son for his spring break the following week. Delightful.

I don’t actually have $20 to spare, unless Dr. Eliot takes credit cards, which are paid in a full lump sum of upwards of $12,000/month by my mom, so I up the stakes to a massage, and even saying it creeps me out. I feel like this May-December romance is hitting all the normal milestones of sleazy relationships between young women and older men, and I’m getting a little concerned that I may be sacrificing some of my purity to play in the big leagues with this seasoned playboy. It’s a little thrilling, though, so I decide to just go with it.

Dr. Eliot is absolutely correct: Bambina, legally named Christina Cecilia Carolina Gonzalez, is here for a shot to the ass for her quarterly contraceptive fix of Depo Provera. She missed her shot last month, though, and even more problematically, Bambina may actually be pregnant. We find this out as she nonchalantly mentions that she can’t remember if she had sex with anyone this month or not. This is weird to me, because it’s never stuck me as a casual, forgettable act. I’m just a virgin, though, so perhaps I have no idea.

“Have you been under the influence of drugs or alcohol around a man, and are therefore concerned you had unprotected sex?” asks Hillary, who is giving this woman way too much credit. Obviously Bambina has never even seen a condom, unless you’re talking about those balloon thingies overly cautious people use when one of the two to 16 people involved in the sex act has A) a menstrual flow (gotta keep everything dry) or B) visible genital warts (you can only contract them if you can see them, right?).

Bambina throws her head back in what I guess she thinks is flirtatious laughter. Unfortunately, none of us is really going for it, as we are all straight women who are not attracted to her muffin top hanging out over her jeans, which are being held up by a plastic grommeted belt, nor her tattoos, which are of your garden-variety bimbo icons, such as roses, butterflies, and yin yangs.

“Of course I wasn’t drunk when I was with Hector,” she laughs off. I have no idea who Hector is, but I can only imagine he enjoys the finer things in life, like Colt 45s and Swisher Sweets. “I was just really tired and fell asleep while we were fooling around,” she explains, though I’m still not thoroughly convinced she wasn’t willingly roofied and gang banged by a flock of horny bikers.

Dr. Vere bolts in through the door. He is a primary care doctor, which puts him susceptible to the general downfalls of the Short Man Syndrome of doctors. By this I mean that all doctors think that their specialty is the hardest/most interesting/God’s gift to hospitals, and primary care physicians are the most defensive, because of their “choice” not to specialize, instead “choosing” to treat unspecified pain, kid’s ear infections, and obese people with gall stones. Primary care physicians, who are used to being relegated to the title of glorified physician’s assistants with three times the student loan debts, are generally one of two distinct breeds. There are friendly, genuinely concerned primary care doctors, who remember the names of your children and ask about your mom’s bowling league, and then there are those who have obviously been way too lauded by overprotective parents who think doctors should be the only person to touch their child. These kinds of parents are the idiots that demand only doctors administer vaccines or stick their kids for blood samples, which is dumb because it’s the nurses that are most experienced and familiar with phlebotomy work.

Dr. Vere, fortunately, falls into the former of those personalities. He always seems a little over-energized, as though he has just done lines in the bathroom before getting really excited to diagnose Swimmer’s Ear or Chicken Pox. He tries to not stare at the tattoo of an overly sexualized kitten on Bambina’s chest, but seems oddly mesmerized, as though the tattoo were the Cheshire cat of this woman’s diseased body.

I quickly relay the situation to Dr. Vere, who replies, “Thank you, Katie.” Cute. At least he tried to remember my name.

Dr. Vere asks Bambina why she did not come last month when she was due for more contraceptive, and she says that she was too busy. I can only imagine what keeps this woman from the rather necessary appointments that prevent her from procreating, but I resist the urge to ask.

The team of Hillary, Dr. Vere, and myself has a small conference outside the door, and it’s decided that we have to give the woman a pregnancy test before doing anything. I direct Bambina on how to use a pregnancy test, which she takes to the bathroom. She returns with the stick, and I recoil in disgust, which is far too overwhelming to even try to hide. I’m pretty sure touching anything upon which this woman has peed is not going to end well.

Hillary, the more professional of us, takes the pregnancy test stick and places it on the lab table, which is covered in diaper paper. The deal with this pregnancy test is that it takes a few hours to give a clear answer, but the stick is indicating “unclear,” and Dr. Vere is eager to get to his next patient (or next round of lines in the bathroom, either one). He makes the judgment call to administer the Depo, and Hillary is left with the disgusting task of shooting this woman’s tattooed ass. On the plus side, she isn’t wearing underwear, so we don’t even have to mess with the awkward discussion of removing everything below the waist. Bambina really thought about what she wore to this appointment.

The rest of the evening is filled with my doing way less interesting crap, like filing paperwork and answering calls. The clinic is supposed to close at 10, but usually it won’t close until 11 because homeless people are way too busy to get their government handouts in a timely fashion.

Around 10:45 I start cleaning up. While generally I like to just discard everything in sight and bleach the bejesus out of all surfaces, I see that the pregnancy test stick is still sitting on the lab counter. I walk over to it, armed with six layers of latex gloves and 30 paper towels. I’m a little concerned when I grab the stick and see that it says, “PREGNANT.”

I immediately regret seeing this. I have only two options: tell Dr. Vere, who will probably try to cover his ass and maybe even blame Hillary for this predicament, or I can throw him under the bus during wrap-up. Either way, this cannot end in any good outcome, and I really just want to get home so I can start pre-gaming for our standard Tuesday activities at Tootsie’s.

I grab Elle, who immediately freaks out, thus causing everyone to ask what the heck is going on. I slip out a back door, realizing wrap-up is not going to happen for another hour now that we have to track down Bambina and figure out some crisis management. I jump in my car and make my getaway before Dr. Vere can attack me with a needle to the jugular or Bambina can return to throw a punch to my face, which would inevitably end in a cat fight that results in my ripping out her jet black polyester hair extensions and gold-tone hoop earrings.

When I first started volunteering at this clinic, I always went with other med students. However, upon realizing that carpooling with others meant sticking around until midnight or whenever the doctors decided to stop talking about what incredible diagnosticians they are, I decided to try driving myself out for the first time. Located in the heart of the Nashville projects, the roads leading to the clinic are mostly dark, with only a few streetlights dotting each street. Crack whores with booty shorts and midriff-cut T-shirts would always congregate around the sparsely distributed lights. All that was missing was a billboard of T. J. Eckleburg’s optometry practice.

Gypsy, my GPS, has not been working lately. This could be because it’s really old, or because Maria spilled her Code Red from Taco Bell on it. I’m trying to get it to direct me back to the safety of areas with >$100/month rental homes, but it keeps telling me I’m in Montana. I sigh and decide to try to find signs for the highway.

I’m just beginning to gather my bearings when a man wanders in front of my moving car. I’m going about 40, so of course I slam on the breaks to avoid hitting this jaywalker. The man turns and stares at me, flashing a mouth full of gold teeth. He grins, which sends shivers up my spine. He is frozen in the headlights of my car, and we both pause for about ten seconds. Then, out of no where, a group of about seven or eight young men jump out from behind a bush, two carrying guns, and one holding a large knife. They are running towards my car, yelling something terrifying.

Freaked the HELL OUT, I slammed my foot on the accelerator. This is definitely not what these thugs expected, and I actually hit two of them as I went flying out of the area. They come chasing after me, but I quickly lose them by going 100 mph in this residential neighborhood. I still have not a clue where I am, but there’s no way I’m stopping my car again, so I just keep driving until I see a better lit area. I roll into a Kroger parking lot, where I call Dr. Eliot, sobbing.

Dr. Eliot tries to determine where I am, but all I can tell him is that I’m at a Kroger. He advises me to ask someone inside. I’m way too scared to get out of my car, but ask a very old man where I am. I’ve rolled the window down about four centimeters, and he tells me that I’m about half a mile from civilization. I race back home, with my priorities in order: finish crying, shower, blackout to forget this terrifying experience.

I don’t tell anyone the story back at home, because I really just want to forget about it completely. I overcompensate by telling everyone the Bambina story, and Heidi, a perky blonde friend who also has aspirations to go to medical school in the future, pours me shot after shot of mid-grade alcohol. Heidi is particularly fun to be in your going out group because she is so delightfully happy-go-lucky that you could suggest pretty much any location, part of town, or horrible idea and she would willingly accompany, gin in hand.

“What’s your man situation?” Heidi asks while tossing back a double shot of Ancient Age. I grimace, not because tequila tastes like a dusty old man, but because she has just sucked on a lime, which is horrible for your enamel and I am extremely anal about my teeth. I ponder her question, and am not sure exactly how to answer. I’ve now been “dating” Dr. Eliot for a month or so, but I am certainly not being the best girlfriend by entertaining texts from random men who seem to keep coming out of the woodwork. I definitely won’t be saying anything about Preston, because that relationship has always been clandestine, and exposing it now would take away the only allure of that whole situation.

I answer with some non-committal response, and that seems to satisfy Heidi. I realize that her question has made me reevaluate what exactly I am doing with men these days. Is there an actual future with Dr. Eliot? On the plus side, he is definitely not some dumb frat boy, but on the other, he is a little old, has a child, and would probably not be pleased with my partying schedule when I should be performing my stepmotherly duties of chaperoning on overnight trips or making sure prepubescent boys keep their hands at arm’s length at the middle school dances. I’m pretty sure I’d be encouraging students to spike the punch just to get through such a disgusting event.

I’m snapped out of my reverie by Roxie, who has joined us. She is wearing liquid leggings, of which I immediately envious /disgusted. She is really working them, though, since she has legs the size of my tharms, and we have different tastes in men, anyway, so this shouldn’t be a problem. Accompanying Roxie is Miranda, who is wearing her standard Forever 21 attire, which looks surprisingly chic on her. When I once commented on how up-to-date her wardrobe always seems, she responded that this is only because all of her synthetic clothes fall apart after one trip through the spin cycle, forcing her into twice-weekly shopping excursions.

A few other people follow, and eventually we have a group of 10 ready to go out. It’s pretty late though, since we all had a delayed start and I had been at the clinic/almost getting carjacked for so long, so we don’t end up getting out until around 12:30. It’s actually just a random Tuesday in February, so I’m only expecting seasoned alcoholics and other college students to be out, but, to my surprise and delight, there’s some sort of college football coaches’ convention happening at the Gaylord. The bar is packed with strapping 30-somethings and almost no women. Jackpot.

It’s not long before a few suitors sidle up to our group, and we all go for our respective “types.” Roxie has gone off with some huge tattooed man from an upstate New York state college, Taylor is dancing with a short Guido coach for a community-college-turned-“accredited”-four-year-university, Marcy is with some very ugly man that probably is not related to this convention but came to the bar by himself, Bella is with a nerdy college guy, and I’m doing shots with the very attractive, youngest and most recently-hired football coach of Georgetown. He’s 30, and seems to know his way around a dance floor. I guess I’ll make out with him.

I decide he can be Big Spoon for the evening, since I’m still feeling really vulnerable from my brush with death as a project chick. It’s already two in the morning, and I have to get up in five hours to finish/start an essay due at my noon class. This will minimize time that this guy can do anything dangerous, in case he’s an axe murderer. Plus, I’ve alerted Taylor, who has remained relatively sober for the evening, and she promises to keep an eye on things. She has also given him the once-over, and has approved of his appearance.

We take a cab back to my place, and before I can tell him that he needs to leave the next morning at the crack of dawn, he tells me that he has to leave at five so he can go back to his hotel and pack for his 6:30 flight. I’m sort of put off that he has one-upped me in terms of sleep deficits, but I guess I’ll be flattered he’s making the effort to at least make sure I fall asleep.

We pull into my apartment, and he throws the cabbie four crisp one hundred dollar bills. “Stay here until five,” he commands the cab driver, who looks thoroughly confused. I should have warned him that there was no way this guy is sticking around if you give him the money up front, but there’s something adorable about this guy’s naïveté. That, or he’s just showing off, but both are acceptable.

On a sobering four flights of stairs up to my apartment, I suddenly realize that the fact this guy has so many Benjamins should be a red flag. We get upstairs to my apartment, and I decide this is actually a horrible idea, and not safe. I suggest we watch a movie, which is basically the only way I can figure out how to discreetly put him in the most public and well-lit area of the apartment. This will also keep me from feeling obligated to take any clothes off, since I have to be respectful of my roommates.

Not surprisingly, my football coach, who is obviously really in the Mafia (how else would he have so many one hundred dollar bills?), is not happy with my plan. He is polite though, and kind of goes with the situation, as we watch “Mean Girls,” which is my favorite movie. I’m just trying to be as unattractive as possible in case this guy wants to make me his Mafia wife, so I start texting my ex-boyfriends and pretty much any person in my phone book with a male name, showing him each and every ridiculous text. There’s a good chance my uncle was completely weirded out by my surprise three AM text about who knows what when he received it the next day, but it was all in the name of safety.

Since my phone’s out already, this guy, whose name I have long forgotten but will evermore be named Tony Soprano, suggests that I take his number. I come up with some elaborate story that my phone can’t add numbers, and he says he would take mine but his phone’s dead. I refuse to take his number “because I’m a lady,” though, and at this point he is probably beginning to think I’m insane, per my Hamlet-style plan. I’m actually also really drunk, which is helping me get into character.

Tony asks me what time it is. I point out the clock on the oven, which says 4:17. In a stroke of genius, I immediately fabricate that the clock is 40 minutes late, and that he’d better get to his cab to get home and pack! Tony freaks out and starts screaming expletives, because he has a really big recruitment thingie back in DC that same morning that he cannot miss at the risk of his recently garnered position as a coach. I know he’s really just concerned that the Mafia will be mad if he doesn’t get back on time with the money, but he does a good job of playing up this football coach story. I practically shove him out the door, where I see that the cab is long gone. It’s actually only 4:17, as my clock had reported, which means finding a cab will be near impossible, especially without a working cell phone, but I quickly run back into my apartment and slam and lock the door. I don’t want to end up dead in the back of someone’s trunk.

A little wired from my recent resourcefulness, I go into my room and see that a few of the ex-boyfs have texted back. This is always fun, because I got what I needed out of them but have no real desire to talk to them, but the fact that I won’t respond to them will drive them insane. I expect to be getting texts and calls from them for the next few weeks, and I even get some flowers and a stuffed teddy bear the following weekend from one of them.

I am sort of interested, however, in a text I get back from Preston. He tells me he just booked his flight for graduation, and that he can’t wait to see me. His brother is my year at school, but I generally avoid him because he’s also a philandering cheater and his smile creeps me out. I forget about all my scary encounters with men of the day and pass out naked.

As I’m relaying this story the next morning over biscuits and bacon, Taylor comments that perhaps my treatment to the mysterious football coach/mafia man was not the most humanitarian. I quickly check outside to make sure he is not still there; if he is, I will make everything right by throwing him a biscuit from the safety of my balcony, where he cannot see or touch me, and would even call him a cab if he really needed it. He is not there, however, which means he got back to his mafia hive safely.

Back in the protective shelter of my home, I turn to Heidi and ask her what her plans are for her big 21st birthday, which will be the following weekend. She is the only person I know in our class younger than me. I had to wait through September to finally ditch my fake ID, which featured some generic looking Asian that my sister apparently knew from Yale whose middle name is “Y.” She isn’t smiling, but as long as no one starts asking me about Great Neck or NYC, I’m fine with it. The fact that I’m blonde, and that Jane Y is not, is all the more helpful, as bouncers seem to live in fear of offending random racial minorities. It’s okay—we really do sometimes all look the same.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she comments, contemplating her blueberry muffin.

“Can we do something wild? Like a destination birthday?” I ask, probably still drunk from last night. I suggest some possibilities, like Rio and Paris, but it turns out international travel is a little too pricey for some people. I offer Vegas, but we had just done that trip earlier that school year for Fall Break. Miranda is all about Florida or someplace she can be tan and skinny, but it’s still a little too cold for beaches, and I might be confused for a beached whale if I roll into Miami after eating these four biscuits and a half pound of bacon.

The room goes silent with hungover college girls thinking of the most perfect, original, outrageous birthday location. “What about DC?” I offer. I’m all about America. Oh yeah, and Preston, Hassan, and apparently this football coach in the mafia all live there, making it a city full of opportunity and surprises.

Everyone turns and stares, confused and maybe even outraged. Way to go, patriots.

“Why would we do that?” asks Taylor, who has probably never watched a cable news channel for any other purpose than to see that crazy Nancy Grace woman go after child molesters.

“I am from DC,” Heidi comments. I had completely forgotten this fact, but it is all the more helpful in persuading everyone to gather at our nation’s capital. I can see the mental cogs turning in her head as she tries to figure out why I would choose such a bizarre location.

“You can commemorate 21 years of unlawful drinking in our nation’s capital! It’s poignant and exciting.” I implore.

“Cherry blossoms!” pipes up Maria, who hasn’t been participating at all in this conversation, but has been reading random blogs and talking to herself about how pretty her hair is.

I guess it would be nice to go home…” Heidi adds.

“What do you think?” I ask Bella, who has started staring into space.

“Hmm? What?” She snaps back in. “Sorry, I began fantasizing about having an affair with George Stephanopoulos.”

“I don’t get it,” Taylor comments. She probably thinks Bella is talking about some sort of vegan Mediterranean appetizer.

Within a few hours, flights are booked. Taylor is not going because of some stupid school commitments (seriously?), Maria is too terrified to leave her boyfriend for a weekend because he is obviously cheating on her, Miranda will be joining our five-day extravaganza a day late because of sorority executive board crap, and Heidi, Bella, and I will be raising the terror alert together on our flight out of Nashville the following Wednesday. Should get experimental.


111 thoughts on “Chapter 3 of Type A+

    1. this woman is not a feminist by any stretch of the imagination. and “yellow fever?” what a racist prick. that said, woodward pu is an idiot.

  1. My favourite bit is when she criticizes the scantily clad stripper, yet dresses like a super cheap prostitute on the cover of her “book”. This chick is really something! The attempted car jacking and other incidents are karmic repercussions for your vanity and chauvinism! I honestly can’t comprehend her level of self love, a very black, shrivelled little soul you’ve got there, Missy!

    1. Minor correction: scantily clad woman whom she immediately assumes is a stripper.

      Other than that, though. Spot on. I read some of her second book on Amazon (you can preview it) and was floored by the hypocrisy. Every other page is a depiction of her dressing up like a strumpet, getting drunk while men she’s just met buy her “top shelf liquor,” and then going home with them. She doesn’t have sex, though, so she’s definitely still “pure.” She just sleeps in their bed and then goads them into chauffeuring her around D.C. because her dad won’t buy her a car. Maybe she should just appropriate some of that 12k/mo from mom to a new ‘Quin’s Brand New Bimer’ fund, but that wouldn’t be as fun as leading men on to get favors, buying a lot of “designer shoes,” and complaining about living in abject poverty. Meanwhile, everyone around her receives her endless contempt for liking low-brow music (read: anything other than Taylor Swift and co.), drinking cheep booze, watching mind-numbing television (which doesn’t include Real Housewives of Wherever, because that’s one of Q’s favorites), and otherwise doing exactly what she does.

      This is all so hilariously hyperbolic that I’m almost inclined to conclude that this is all an elaborate fiction, masterfully contrived by an artist with an intellect far in excess of my own, but I’ve seen her interviewed and she’s thick as a brick.

  2. Self-published ≠ published.
    Self-published ≠ published.
    Self-published ≠ published.
    Self-published ≠ published.
    Self-published ≠ published.

      1. her dad who paid for med school (250k) which she dropped out of to run a wordpress blog her a condo and co signed for her.

        she doesn’t actually need to save 20k and the credit for the condo.

        meanwhile shes whores around cock teases and has a worthier than thou attitude.

        I just recently got to a point in my career to think about my first home purchase.

        i am a IT engineer and i make about 85k a yr.
        She never worked for anything in her life clearly.

  3. I too once had scholarship, Quin. Many years ago I lived in Ann Arbor: a pet of my master Railton, mimicking his movements from my cage and learning the mysterious art of scholarship, for Railton was one of Ann Arbor’s sweetest treats. His only rival was a man named Janaway, and they competed in all things, but in nothing more fiercely than for the love of scholarship. The bitter he-mistress, Rawls, had love only for my master and rather than see him fight Rawls for his scholarship, he persuaded Janaway to flee with me to America. But Railton vowed vengeance. I remember it well, as my master returned home to find his beloved scholarship lying on the floor, and then he saw its killer. Janaway wasted no words, and during the struggle, my cage was broken. I leapt to Janaway’s face, biting and clawing, but he threw me to the floor and took one swipe with his scholarship, slicing my ear. Then he was gone, and I was untenured.

      1. If I can’t blog, I can’t blog. It is as simple as that. It ain’t about that at all. It’s easy to sum it up if you’re just talking about a blog. We’re sitting here, and I’m supposed to be the sweetest prancing scholar, and we’re talking about a blog. I mean listen, we’re sitting here talking about a blog, not scholarship, not scholarship, NOT SCHOLARSHIP, but we’re talking about a blog. Not the scholarship that I go out there and die for and write every article like it’s my last but we’re talking about a blog man. How silly is that?

        Now I know that I’m supposed to lead by example and all that but I’m not shoving that aside like it don’t mean anything. I know it’s important, I honestly do but we’re talking about a blog. We’re talking about a blog, man. We’re talking about a blog. We’re talking about a blog. We’re not talking about scholarship. We’re talking about a blog. When you come to the arena, and you see me dissertate, you’ve seen me dissertate right, you’ve seen me give everything I’ve got, but we’re talking about a blog right now.

        1. Much scholarship is inscrutable, and thus doesn’t lend itself to being talked about because it doesn’t want to be talked about.

    1. We have been waiting for you, Miss TokyoRose. Your mouth may yet bring you much troubre Miss TokyoRose. I Deriver a message… SHUT IT!

  4. “…legally named Christina Cecilia Carolina Gonzalez, is here for a shot to the ass for her quarterly contraceptive fix of Depo Provera.”

    Notwithstanding the terrible person you are, if you are actually divulging a patient’s name you actually violated the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA/HITECH). I’d pull that book off the shelves if you don’t want major fines and that clinic you worked for shut down. Internet will probably catch on soon enough.

    1. Yup. $50K fine for that one. Wasn’t a big deal until now because nobody ever read it. Now lots of people have.

      Of course, it’s quite possible that this, like all the rest of her book, is mostly made up.

    1. … but… why? You don’t exactly have to conduct an experiment to know what the outcome of posting utterly narcissistic bullshit would be.
      Methinks that she’s just a dumb psycho.

  5. I wanted to rail on Pu for over reacting to that guy she went on a couple of dates with. (I don’t think two dates even counts as dating.) But thought I would read this excerpt to better evaluate her claim of being published. It is clear that the publishing service her father paid for didn’t include editing services.

    Pu’s writing is so bad both creatively and technically. Her strained prose reminds me of over cooked angel hair pasta, all gummy, mucky and lacking any substance. It is far worse than inarticulate Kardashian narcissism because she claims to be a writer and a snarky, man-eating fashionista.

    I hope the backlash from attempting to destroy that guy opens Pu’s and her loved one’s eyes to just how bad off she is. She needs proper therapy and to stop drinking and to be possibly be medicated. Once stabilized, she should take some writing classes at a community college. Just start with the basics. Pj’s writing is a perfect example of someone going from Facebook, to food blog to a @politi-couture twitter account to this gawd awful tripe.

    oh yeah, your mom paying your monthly $12k credit card bill in one lump sum makes you sound so pathetic. Go back to 2k5 and start with some jeans and tees and work your way up. You don’t even have nice clothing. I was shocked when I saw all the pictures of you in your cheap, ghastly, ill-fitting clothing. Quin, you seriously need help. Get it.

  6. Holy crap. You are full of the crazazy.

    Something something people who live in glass houses something something stones. For someone with your body to be critical of someone else’s muffin top???? I’m usually the first one to play devil’s advocate and try to find something decent, but you are so full of yourself. News flash: you aren’t perfect. You also aren’t God. For you to judge anyone else on this planet is narcissistic. Instead of asking Mommy to pay your credit card bill, ask her to pay your therapy bill.

    Second, when you divulged a patient’s name you violated HIPAA and put that clinic where you used to work in jeopardy. Do you really think HIPAA doesn’t apply to you????? Damn good thing you got out of the healthcare field but I do think a call to the Department of Health and Human Services is warranted. Hell, all they have to do is get a copy of your self-published book where you admitted you violated HIPAA. Guess you’re gonna be selling that condo to pay the fines. Good luck with that. Maybe Mommy dearest will pay the fines for you, but I honestly hope she doesn’t.

    Reality needs to walk up and bitchslap you to some dark corner of hell. You are a bitch. Two dates and you report that poor guy to his company? Boy, I hope you rot in hell.

    A lesson from someone old enough to be your mother: don’t be such a stuck up bitch. You really have NO REASON to be stuck up. At best, you are an average looking girl (below average in my opinion, but that’s just my opinion); you yourself have a muffin top (and you criticize others?), your boobs are pointing in two different directions, you look like a cheap prostitute on the cover of your book, you have fat fingers, and no class. Again, no reason to be stuck up. Eat some humble pie, dear, before it’s too late. Try to find some way to redeem yourself. I have no idea what you could possibly do to redeem yourself, but I guess that could be your project for the rest of your life.

  7. i’m a med student and will be “choosing” primary care. i guess i’ll have to give up my dreams of having a “glitzy and glamorous career” and “VIP lifestyle”.

    your writing isn’t very good, but at least you’re not pretty.

  8. You decided to forgo Johns Hopkins to be a writer? I’m not trying to be mean, but this just sounds like one big bragfest, complete with classism and racism, as well as a violation of HIPAA if that is indeed that woman’s real name. You talk about this “Dr. Eliot” figure: “I don’t actually have $20 to spare, unless Dr. Eliot takes credit cards, which are paid in a full lump sum of upwards of $12,000/month by my mom, so I up the stakes to a massage, and even saying it creeps me out.” That’s like way too many thoughts in one sentence. First of all, why mention that your mother pays your credit cards? That whole bit can be edited out, as it’s totally unnecessary unless you’re bragging that your mother pays for your credit cards to the tune of $12k a month.

    And the ragging on the woman in the clinic. That’s just not cool, and totally unnecessary. Thank God you decided not to be a doctor, because who wants a doctor that judgmental and uncaring?

    You really ought to find a new profession, because this is difficult to read because it’s so choppy and you fly from one thought to the next in the same sentence, going off on a small tangent then coming back. A lot of it just doesn’t make sense. And I sincerely doubt that the physician, the nurse, and yourself “conferenced” about whether or not to give this woman a pregnancy test before Depo. A doctor would not consult with a volunteer on whether or not to give a pregnancy test to a patient, if she had unprotected sex after missing her birth control. It’s a given. Also, when a woman takes a pregnancy test at a clinic, she urinates in a cup first. Then the nurse will conduct the test. And no, it does not take a few hours. And no way would a nurse leave a pregnancy test out in the open for hours like that.

    So not only are you judgmental but you’re also a liar. It’s not cool or interesting to rag on everyone around you. No one wants to read that.

  9. Honey, you need to check yourself against the latest DSM… your writing seems to be a representation of the myriad of thoughts {all seemingly incoherent, hate driven, and completely self absorbed} as you navigate through a litany of garbage yet you are unable to finish any of those thoughts. Granted I have not read your book but rather just this excerpt and other than the obvious questions that arise { a)is this person for real?!?! b)if so, what kind of monsters raised her to be this?!? c) where was the publishing editor?!?!? }, so I beg of you, so I can sleep tonight, what happened to the paper that was due at noon?? why not report that incident to the police regarding the “alleged” car jacking???………Please just give some answers…… I have notched this asinine piece of grammatically incorrect nonsense as a sign of mental illness and the most expensive CRY FOR HELP I have ever seen. I am finishing my MBA at the McDonough School in G’town and I hope I never have to run into you or your kind. EVER. Please keep your hate mongering, self righteous ideology out of such places as Rhino bar where my friends and I frequent…

    1. No publishing editor Ben… she SELF-PUBLISHED her books, meaning that mom and dad paid a publisher to print her shit.

      1. Ben, if you ever see Whale Pu in the Rhino bar (verbally bitch slap her with this message)She is a disgrace to all women in the United States.Fifth graders living in poverty could write a better book than this poor soul..After reading this ,I wouldn’t read her book even if she was giving it away with a side order of chicken pu wong ding!! I

          1. Ben,

            Her favorite restaurant is Fiola 😦
            I don’t know where I should go to avoid her.
            Animal control needs to lock her up soon

  10. Hey Quin, do the world a favor, go buy a knife, and run into it. You’re a fat, ugly Asian with serious narcissism and a self-obsession that not even the best of the best could contend with. Your delusions are mind-boggling. And you call yourself a writer? For being self-published? hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

    EVERY SINGLE GUY YOU WILL EVER MEET will size you up within seconds of meeting you. You think you have good chemistry with everyone? Maybe those guys have had too many jack and cokes and they settled for trying to bang you that night because they struck out on the 9s (you’re a soft 3 by the way).


  11. Seriously? You can write about being as self centered as you want to be….it’s your book, I don’t condone it but hey whatever floats your boat. Butt you need to address the issue of using someone’s real name who came to you and your co workers for medical attention. Not only did you violate her privacy rights, you admit to mocking and judging the patients which is unethical. You took away someone’s right not to be a part of that which they may not want to be involved with, and you opened yourself to legal action, further compounded by the fact that you are posting it on the internet…it’s not ever going to go away now. Good luck with that.

  12. Closing your comments on your other “article” will not help you from the shitstorm that is coming. I am gonna post it on 4chan… Perhaps even make a video about you

    1. I don’t think she’s worthy of a video. After all, she’s just a self-absorbed psycho blogger. Been there, seen that.
      … but… see you on 4chan

  13. Holy shit. You and the loser wedding photographer from Texas, you know the one that hates fat chicks and black people, should hook up. I think his name is Romeo Rose and it would be the best date of your life and made for TV. Quin, I have to say you are a complete trollop, and not in a good way either. I thought maybe people were being mean to you (as that is what the internet is for), but no, not really. You have some sort of personality disorder and are definitely a narcissist, at the very least. That guy who texted you? What the fuck is wrong with you? He was smart to bail. You are a classless piglet (not in the fat sense) and are probably shaming your parents to no end. Look, if you have to throw your own birthday party, they’re not really friends Quin. And the other girls on your site that you’ve deluded into being sidekicks, Jesus could you you have found a trashier crew? Christ it looks like they raided the dumpster behind a Dress Barn and then dove immediately into a deep fat frier at TGIF next door. Seriously honey, you think you want THIS 15 minutes of fame? You’d be better off blowing Bill Clinton, if you haven’t already done so.

  14. So, let’s try to make just one sentence better:

    “He is a primary care doctor, which puts him susceptible to the general downfalls of the Short Man Syndrome of doctors.”

    How about this instead?

    “He is a primary care doctor, which MAKES him susceptible to the PITfall of WHAT SERVES AS THE EQUIVALENT OF Short Man Syndrome FOR doctors.”

    Still bad, but no longer semi-literate. The original version, though, phoo. Wow. You’re not a writer; you’re a typer.

    Good thing your parents are rich. Why that guy ran like hell, no one on the whole Intertrons can figure out.

  15. There is such a thing a showing sympathy and compassion towards your fellow human beings. They are not props in your life to be mocked for no one’s amusement.

  16. You all realize shes a genius right? All this publicity? She’s getting a ton of attention, and who knows if this is how she actually feels and/or acts. Maybe some people like reading this junk? Who knows what the end result will be… maybe she is really a monster. But who cares?

  17. Dear Ms. Pu,

    I became aware of your blog and memoirs after a website recently posted your article entitled “I’m 26. What’s a filter?” and, shortly thereafter, stumbled across this submission, which is an excerpt from your first memoir. In reading the preview, I was stunned that you disclosed patients’ names, physicians’ names, and even went on to mock in your book some patients general demeanor, medical status, and potential course of treatment. I therefore filed a HIPAA complaint with the United States Department of Health and Human Services – Office of Civil Rights in order for them to proactively investigate these alleged violations of your past patients’ privacy rights.

    Even though you decided to forgo medical school, you should have been cognizant of the fact that disclosing that information is a violation of HIPAA and can have serious implications. I do not know if the OCR will further investigate that alleged wrongdoing or not, but I am confident in our legal system that has been the backbone of your country for centuries, and HIPAA is a law that was passed by the Congress, and signed into law by our President, to further insulate our so precious information regarding United States citizens’ medical status.

    Respectfully submitted,

    Mr. John Doe

    1. Exactly!! People are overlooking the worst thing– she violated patients’ privacy while working in a free clinic by detailing everything for a BOOK. She mocked a vulnerable segment of society with one if the most hate-filled screeds I’ve ever read.
      I hope you are never poor, Quin. I hope you never have to go to a doctor for medical treatment, only to have that doctor ridicule your body, lifestyle, speech, sexual orientation, and economic status. You should be held accountable.

      Quotes from the book:

      “Perhaps she does not realize that using Dave Chappelle’s vernacular is not the best way to document a medical record. I blush just reading her extensive sexual history, which lists men, women, men and women, and encounters that she isn’t sure about since partakers “looked like men” but lacked a “ding dong” and instead had a “vajay.” I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that a seriously overweight, uneducated, unemployed, unsophisticated, disease-riddled she-man who probably thinks Nancy Pelosi is a kind of pizza is having more sex than me.”

      “If I had my way, I’d lecture this crazyass woman about safe sex, maybe even mention “abstinence,” which would probably overwhelm her small, sex-oriented brain, then pop her full of oral contraceptives and load her down with rubbers, tattoo “HEATHEN” or “I HAVE STDs” on her forehead, and send her back to the projects, but apparently this is incongruous with the Hippocratic Oath. Instead I escort her out the door and wash my hands 15 times.”

      1. Good fucking goodness that is so mean. Maybe that woman is having more sex than you, Quin, because you make guys’ dicks shrivel up into their bodies. You’re a rotten, terrible person. People don’t want to sleep with that. People don’t want to sleep with judgmental assholes.

  18. It’s literally flabbergasting how you, an overprivileged, sociopathic, lazy, alcoholic narcissist, have the gall to shit on the people in your free clinic–your racist sneer at “Hector” and your paternalistic disdain for homeless people (most of whom are mentally ill, by the way) looking for “government handouts” qualify you as one of the worst human beings either I or the commenters here have ever come across. Working in this free clinic sounds like the only semi-substantive thing you have ever done in your entire pointless, vapid life, and yet all you can muster in your pathetically boring “memoir” is scorn for the downtrodden people you came close to almost helping. I hope you find yourself in need of help from such a clinic, and soon. No one will ever hire or date you ever again, so thankfully my wish is closer to actualization than your ridiculous delusion that you’re somehow glamorous or interesting. Woe betide you, failure will be your constant companion.

    Go get hit by a truck.


    A real person.

    PS bragging about how your parents paid your bills in college only proves that you didn’t learn anything while you were there.

  19. You’re a liar: What kind of pee stick takes hours to give results? Ancient Age is whiskey not tequila, anyone who drinks and parties as much as you claim to should know that. I doubt you are dumb enough to violate HIPPA laws.

    You sure are judgmental of the patient’s clothes seeing as you’re dressed like a mismatched hooker on the cover of your (self published) book.

    There’s nothing more that I love than someone who “volunteers” their time and then bashes the people they are supposed to be helping. You are a true gem.

  20. OK, truth time, Quin style. I am the enemy and I have met Quin. I was at her birthday party with her “closest” friends. How do I know her? After meeting her in a DC bar, feeding her a few drinks, she took me home and blew me. She somehow thinks that because I didn’t get to bang her several hours after we met, that she is not a whore. I would respect her if she were a slut, but she is not — she is a whore. By that I mean she trades sex, or in her case poorly executed blowjobs, for the hint of future profit. She is impressed by jobs, status and money. Whore.

    To answer some of your questions, yeah she is kind of fat with a sloppy ass. Speaking of her ass, I met her through a buddy who told me and our friends that after a couple of dates when she wouldn’t give it up she got hammered and let him give her one up the old poopshoot, which she seemed to genuinely enjoy. He is sometimes full of shit, so I don’t know, but after having her choke down my load I don’t doubt it that much.

    What was her party like? Great if you like people coming together to watch a trainwreck. Her “friends” are a collection of people she has fucked and fucked over. Or will fuck over. The bulk of conversation was about what a pathetic, self absorbed bitch she is. Or what a true whore, in a city of whores, she is. I mean, I’m a whore too. I work on K Street, the street of filthy whores. But she is a groupie whore, whore to the whores, sucubus to Satan’s ballsack. Get a clue Quin before it’s too late, nobody likes you amongst a group of totally unlikable people. You really think you have friends?

    Just so you know, she is also a pathological liar, she just makes shit up. Her story about being carjacked and hitting two hoodlums? Bullshit. She is a racist shithead. Somebody probably gave her a mean look when she was driving, which she likely sucks at, and she turned it into more drama for her delusional life. She is a racist cunt, simple fact. The rest of her so called book (if you self publish, you are not a writer you dumb butterball, BTW), is also loads of bullshit. Though I must confess I’ve only read the bits on here and that was painful.

    She can’t dress for shit, she looks like a dress up hooker, which she is. I mean where do these lame outfits come from? She thinks she is funny, but when you talk to her you’re mind just wanders away because what comes out her mouth is simply drivel. Blah, blah, blah Quin. Just shut your piehole already and suck my cock, you stupid whore.

    OK, that’s enough, I have to get out of this town. I’m a horrible person. But at least I know it.

  21. I read about your recent blog post describing your heartbreak over being dumped after 2 dates. I couldn’t help but express my concern that you may suffer from a mental illness and I would advise you to seek treatment. Attempting to ruin the life of a father of a young child over a petty 2-week “relationship” is rather juvenile and pathetic to say the least and may be indicative of bipolar disorder or a “break from reality”.

  22. Gotta pin cite (YUP) got a string cite (What else?)
    A couple cross cites, I’m so ten-ured
    Keep my track changes, and keep me draftin’
    You’ll get a CV, shorty no jokin’
    Ay what I stand for? (p-p-p-pow!) RIGOR, BRAH
    I’mma die for this scholarship man I swear to God
    In symposium with some adjuncts and some practictioners
    Where you at? What abstract? You ain’t scholar, Woodwa
    Keep this blog uncited, save that footnote in my Word
    GULC steppin to me, TTTs and editorial boards
    last SSRN – freestyle off the dome
    so what, no legal jobs, SCHOLARSHIP KEEPS ROLLIN ON

  23. I was starting to feel sorry for you with all the hate you were getting until I read “Chapter 3.” I really had no idea anyone could be as selfish and vain as you are. It’s really sad. There’s a reason why you’re literally getting no sympathy from ANYONE online just like you don’t get any from your family.

    Seriously, get some help.

  24. Designer shoes don’t have stickers on the bottom of them.

    You should have taken the stickers off before you took your press shot. (Or not included the bit about loving designer shoes in your bio.)

  25. Another asian girl with hangups about her race. She goes on about her controlling, asian daddy wanting her to be successful (heaven forbid), but elsewhere in a social networking profile she says “her southern side won out” – implying that her white side (because being white obviously means be a rebel) let her be “free”. But hang on, wasn’t her white mother a lawyer?

    But – as with many many asian women to be fair – they see it as such a crutch, always self concious about their race, that they create a barrier, one where they insult themselves, maybe to prevent others (whites) from doing it to them first.

  26. wow, this is just about Twilight level bullshit. I can’t even begin to describe everything thats wrong with this “book” if it even deserves to be called that, but I don’t have to, because its all been wonderfully spelled out in the other comments. Do yourself a favor, dear, get yourself some major therapy, and stop writing.

  27. I’m sorry.. this is really bad. I cannot even begin to describe how bad this is. There are so many mistakes.. not to mention that you sound super conceited. I get it. You’re trying to sound like the tough, witty, lovable protagonist but it’s just not working. I’m sorry, your writing is terrible.

    I’ll try to give you some constructive criticism.

    “I geared up to be treated like your average criminal, performing thankless grunt work for angry/overworked doctor” Your snooty attitude distances yourself from the reader. People like to read about people they can relate to. You’re just making the reader not like you.

    “angry/overworked” Don’t do this. This is your “book”, not your classroom notes. You have the page space to use “and”. It doesn’t sound or look good to use / in an actual story.

    “$12,000/month” This doesn’t look good. Write it out all the way.

    “flirtatiously sliding my hair behind my ear” Don’t flatter yourself. You’re acting narcissistic. Again, making the reader dislike you.

    “I am surprised to see him. He’s not on the schedule as a volunteer physician for the evening, but he explains that he switched with someone so he could see his son for his spring break the following week. Delightful.” Is that delightful sarcasm? Why did you say that? I mean, you being sarcastic fits with your whole histrionic personality disorder thing, but I honestly can’t tell.

    “Unfortunately, none of us is really going for it” Neither are we.
    “none of us is really going for it” None of us IS? IS? Did you even proof read this?
    “who are not attracted to her muffin top hanging out over her jeans” Neither are we (Zing!)

    “Dr. Eliot is absolutely correct: Bambina, legally named Christina Cecilia Carolina Gonzalez, is here for a shot to the ass for her quarterly contraceptive fix of Depo Provera.” I can’t tell if this is a work of fiction, but I’m assuming it is. Why are you bashing her so much? If you were in like high school, that would be the only time it would be socially acceptable to talk shit about someone, but instead you’re a grown woman bitching in a book thinking people will back you up..ugh..nevermind. REAL people don’t give a fuck about this gossipy bullshit. Your snide remarks are not witty or funny. Also, what about doctor patient confidentiality? How does telling us her name add to the story? It’s pointless and bitchy.

    “asks Hillary, who is giving this woman way too much credit.” Wait, who’s Hillary? The character Hillary has not been introduced. Is it the narrator? I thought this was a book about you? Why did you go from first to third person? Did you just forget to write in Hillary walking into the room? Also, that sentence is awkwardly phrased.

    “Obviously Bambina has never even seen a condom, unless you’re talking about those balloon thingies overly cautious people use when one of the two to 16 people involved in the sex act has A) a menstrual flow (gotta keep everything dry) or B) visible genital warts (you can only contract them if you can see them, right?).” Not funny, just bitchy. Also, don’t go from writing out numbers (One, two, three) to just going 1, 2, 3. (I’m referring to “one of the two to 16”)

    “willingly roofied and gang banged by a flock of horny bikers.” That’s not funny. That’s just in poor taste. You have to go to the lowest shit to try to get a laugh and it doesn’t work.

    “hardest/most interesting/God’s gift” WRITE IT OUT. THIS DOESN’T LOOK PROFESSIONAL.

    “He always seems a little over-energized, as though he has just done lines in the bathroom before getting really excited to diagnose Swimmer’s Ear or Chicken Pox.” Not funny.

    All right, I’m done. I can’t read any more of this. You seem to enjoy rubbing in people faces that you have published books, but this isn’t any thing to brag about. You are so arrogant, and it shows so much through your writing. It saddens me that you probably really do think that the world revolves around you and that it’s EVERYONE ELSE who has the problem.

  28. If you want to be taken seriously as an author, stop using ‘that’ as a personal pronoun. Nurses ‘who,’ parents ‘who.’ I know that, technically, ‘that’ works, but using it as frequently as you do sounds ignorant.

  29. I would also like to add that parsimony is your friend. Your use of superfluous adverbs and adjectives indicates that an English degree at Vanderbilt doth not a good writer make.

  30. This is…not good. It reads very poorly, like the hackneyed prose of a overdramatic high-schooler.

    Judging from some of your previous posts, I have to wonder if you aren’t in fact that very thing. Or at least haven’t grown past that very thing…

  31. What memoir? Based on this chapter alone, It’s so freaking obvious every single phrase, sentence and paragraph in this chapter and I strongly believe in both her self-published books (memoirs? Rrreeeaallly?) ARE ALL LIES. Clearly, all the things that this self-absorbed, delusional, egomaniacal, queen of narcissists has written (or typed) in those two self-published books were just all made up; those “incidents and experiences” which this bitch claimed to have happened in her “charmed life” just came straight from the figments of her twisted imagination. Only the morons like this racist, judgmental bitch would believe as truthful the overly dramatic tall tales that she has written in her two self-published books, most specially in this horrendous chapter 3. This woman indeed is a PATHOLOGICAL LIAR and her writings gave her away. And that stupid story that she stupidly chronicled in her blog about that random drunk man she met at the bar who implied to her thru text that he’s not into her, that drama I AM INCLINED TO BELIEVE IS ALSO A PURE LIE. But even if that was true, TWO DATES, TWO FUCKING CASUAL DATES WITH A RANDOM DRUNK GUY and she’s being overly dramatic about being rejected thru text?! I bet that guy couldn’t even remember the name of this bitch until he read all these shits online, again if that fantastic drama of this bitch was even true. But this racist, delusional, judgemental empress of narcissists is a gem when it comes to self-promotion because just like the Kardashian women, she’s now hugging the attention of the netizens even thru the most undignified, hateful and dreadful manner. I won’t be surprised if all these lies and shitful dramas she has put herself into would land her a reality show which probably is one of her visions and missions in life. Why, if a porn video could launch the career of equally self-absorbed, narcissist and shallow woman like KK (and her family) or those other irrelevant people in other reality shows with no clear achievements in life or career, this dramatic bitch who reeks with pure lies and delusions could possibly beat them all. Why, she has already prepared her “made-up” plots for two seasons with her two self-published books. But then she has already created a whole planet of disgusted unbelievers so it surely would tank. Boink!

  32. Those Christmas red boots in her book cover look more like they were bought in Chinatown than bought from a designer boutique. I swear I can buy much better-looking and more fashionable boots in Fashion District in Los Angeles for $25 bucks than her lame Christmas red boots. And what’s with those rhinestones? If she walks in the swanky Rodeo Drive here in So Cal in that outfit wearing those red Christmas boots, for sure she would be mistaken for a cheap hooker. Based on her photos that I’ve seen in different sites and specially here in her own blog, this bitch dresses up like how she has dreadfully described that Latina lady in her published book whom she called Bambina, as well as her other “friends” whom she bashed for their manner of dressing up. Her sense of fashion and her choice of clothes and accessories in her photos, really this bitch doesn’t give the impression that she belongs to the upper crust of society like how she alludes to herself and brags about her designer clothes and shoes (they really look cheap, more like from thrift stores) and as how she looks down on people she deems below her status. She really has the delusion that she’s a fashionista. In her own narcissist mind indeed she is.

  33. This bitch is crazy as FUCK! Honestly, what the fuck is wrong with some people! Imagine if there was a murder trial or something like that and she was a suspect, she’d be guilty immedietly, how is it possible to be such a far from reality, ignorant, arrogant, bitch? Completely disgusing human being.

  34. Honey, at least pretend you studied English if you’re going to self-print your books and claim them to be published. The selfy on the cover screams, “classy!”

  35. I don’t know what’s worse, your petty and vindictive actions, or your lack of remorse and your brazen attempts to profit from this whole distasteful episode. It utterly boggles the mind that you don’t seem to realize how badly this reflects upon you as a human being.

    Speaking as someone who also committed a very public Epic Fail but, unlike yourself, took it to heart and set things right as best I could (to the point where the community that bore the burden of my mistake became my most ardent defenders and that I eventually met my wife through them), let me just say that this could and should have been a learning moment for you. It’s not too late, but if you haven’t achieved emotional maturity by 26, I despair that there is hope for you. I suppose the bright side is that your utter unattractiveness as a human being that you have revealed here makes it unlikely you’ll pass on any of your redeeming qualities to any offspring.

    Also, your writing is dreadfully ordinary. You might want to consider other career options if any are still left. Good luck.

  36. This story sounds eerily familiar to my experience with Quin. I also heard about her affinity for anal sex and she is pretty terrible at blow jobs. Are we still Eskimo brothers if only oral sex was involved? Anyway, she embellishes everything and is the type of girl who would lie about having a ham sandwich instead of a bologna sandwich for no reason even though it has no impact and doesn’t matter to anybody else. It’s actually sad that she has to do it, but hopefully this incident has opened her eyes. I doubt it, though. I didn’t make it to her birthday party that she endorsed like crazy just to get fringe friends to show up, but I do know that even her “co-bloggers” on this site are trying to get as far away from her as possible, and for good reason. As a professional in this city who actually has a job and a little bit of say in who gets hired (though I don’t brag about it openly), I will say that if I saw this content and associated any of the girls involved with this blog with Quin, I probably would not hire her.

  37. This is horrible writing, you really suck at it. You could just focus on giving better blowjobs instead? Just trying to be helpful.

  38. I honestly can’t believe she still posted this after the debacle of her previous blog post. Coincidence that nothing else has been posted since? I think not.

  39. I just heard this “woman’s” interview on a hacky radio morning show. She is absolutely delusional, even a week later. It is a shame that people weakened their argument by attacking her weight and race. They should have attacked her for her narcissism, detachment from reality and her inability to swallow her pride and admit she made a mistake. She is clearly suffering from a borderline personality disorder. Why she is getting any publicity out of this is beyond me, but hopefully her 15 minutes are up soon and we can start talking about more relevant topics than an unknown, spoiled 26 year old brat.

  40. Please tell us more about your VIP lifestyle, as so far I have seen none of it. Funny how a guy with a big day ahead spends the night in some dodgy flat, watching crap TV. He wasn’t even put of by your texting. of random guys, who are all awake and responding to your texts at 4.17 in the morning.

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  44. Wait, you actually wrote this? If you posted on your blog… did your blog get hacked or something lolol bcuz when I read the preview on amazon I assumed someone was slandering your name, trying to make you look bad by writing a morally shitty book from your viewpoint, with loads of insane elitism and terrible grammar and English. I can’t tell you how gross it is reading this story. I assumed trolls must’ve written it.
    You should probably stop bragging about the fact that you have two novels out. Self-published with KDP is a very different thing, especially when you’re not serious about your writing at all.

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