We asked, you answered, it’s back: FML Friday!

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A long while back, every Friday, we used to post an advice column for people who submitted their mundane woe-is-me, boo-hoo bullshit on FMyLife.com. We would pick three of the most hilarious, or mundane, or whatever FML submissions, and respond to them as though the person needed help with their “FML.”

It was a weekly feature that accomplished several goals. First, it ensured that there was content on our website every two weeks; second it was really a way for us to amuse ourselves.

Since our last FML Friday, a few things have changed, namely the design of this website — which, as mentioned in a previous post, I’m personally really happy with, making me more inclined to want to post content.

A few nights ago, I posted this question to Twitter:

The responses were, shall we say, few but heartening. So I’ve decided to bring FML Friday back. Welcome to the beginning of the new beginning of a rejuvenated, but still irreverant, FML Friday.

Today, I found out what it feels like to get hit in the head with a bat. Not the wooden kind though. The one that bites and claws you when it gets stuck in your hair. FML

Some beauty expert’s going to tell you what the best thing for your hair isn’t shampoo; it’s some kind of oil, mixed with essence of banana and the seeds from a strawberry — you know, to exfoliate your… uh, hair foliage.

But that expert is wrong. A hippie and wrong. Because all that’s going to do is attract fruit bats. And those motherfuckers are rarely pleased to start chomping down on fruit-flavoured hair. Maybe just use some fuckin’ Herbal Essence next time, yes?

Today, I woke up to the faint memory of being drunk enough to draw dicks on my own face in permanent marker. FML

I believe it was Henry Ward Beecher who said, “Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.”

And your soul, my friend, is dumb and obsessed with drawing penises on its own face. So, what does that say about you? Mostly that you’re a juvenile cock mobster, the intellectual equivalent of a wet fart.

So here’s to you, moron. May the gods have mercy on your useless soul.

Today, I was on the train ride home from a trip to Florida, and I gave my mom a call. While we talked, I made an offhand comment that all my friends back home must miss me. She knowingly asked if I meant my Sims and my cat. FML

This really takes me back to 2004. You know, when people still played the Sims. I can only assume that some strange segment of Floridian society is still hung-up on this throwback videogame. And that segment of Floridian society is lousy with extra chromosomes. This isn’t even acceptable enough to be retro. Not like SimCity.

But let’s address the comment about you having no friends, according to your mother, even though your mention of the Sims more or less explains that one as much as it needs to. Actually, yeah, that’s it, I’m done. You’re a loser.

And your cat thinks so, too.

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