By: Kyla Dowling, Peak Associate
Dear Peakie,
I’m graduating in Spring 2021 and I don’t know how to start looking for a career!
Sincerely, Your Next LinkedIn Network Request
Hey Your Next LinkedIn Network Request!
Firstly, don’t add me on LinkedIn. The idea of being associated with an SFU graduate makes me far too optimistic that I too will get out of this cesspit, and I can’t cope with false hope. Secondly, a JOB? In THIS economy?! Baby, what year are you living in? It’s certainly not 2020!
Given that you didn’t provide your major, I’ll assume that you’re not in STEM and thus your post-graduation job is probably going to be completely unrelated to your degree. Might I suggest donating your eggs or your sperm? That said, though, I really don’t think any SFU student should ever reproduce. Honestly, who needs a job anyways? Stay on campus. Submit to the noise of the construction and the voices in your head telling you you’ll never be good enough.
Love, Peakie
Dear Peakie,
I’ve recently discovered men ain’t shit. What do I do with this information, given that I’m a straight girl? Help, please.
Sincerely, Saygrace was right, these boys ain’t shit
Hi Saygrace was right, these boys ain’t shit,
Honey. Darling. Babygirl. As your gay best friend with no other plot but to support you in your misadventures, I have to ask: you only noticed NOW that men ain’t shit? Not in the third grade, when fucking Joshua pulled your hair and your MALE teacher said “he’s just doing that because he likes you”? Really? I knew straight people were oblivious, but this is a whole different breed of stupid.
Regardless, congratulations on your newfound discovery! Now that you recognize that men ain’t, in fact, shit, you have a few options here. The first? Celibacy. Now, I’m not going to force you to be a nun, because the thought of organized religion makes me squirm, but voluntary celibacy could definitely, totally, be good for the soul. Just don’t go on Reddit.
Your second option is to become a lesbian. Yeah. You heard me. Manifest it. A lot of straight people think you can choose your sexuality anyways, so make that choice. Buy a flannel (or two, or three, or 17, that all look identical). And for god’s sake, cut your damn nails. Best of luck!
Love, Peakie
Dear Peakie,
I slept with this guy and now he won’t return my calls. Should I hex him?
Sincerely, Hoe-cus Pocus
Hey there Hoe-cus Pocus,
First of all, if you don’t have a valid reason for sleeping with a random person in the middle of a global pandemic, I’m going to hex you. And there are very, very few valid reasons. Secondly, is a hex really the most rational choice here? Before you gather your candles and rainwater, think logically. These sorts of problems require tangible solutions. It’s not like he’ll post about a bird shitting on his head on Instagram. You’ll have no way of knowing if your curse worked.
What you’re going to do is this: quarantine for two weeks. Lurk his Snapchat locations to ensure he’s also not seeing anyone for two weeks, which he shouldn’t be. Then, hit him up, and give him the best sex of his life. Make him breakfast the morning after. Flirt with him. Listen to him talk about sports or cars or whatever the fuck kind of boring guy shit he’s into. Get into a relationship with him. Bring him gamer juice as he plays Fortnite. Encourage him to switch his major to something successful, like engineering. Encourage him to get a high-paying job as you stay at home and do the housework. Pretend to love him as the years pass. Say yes when he proposes at Olive Garden. Marry him in his family’s weird cult-ish church. Talk about one day having children. Have dinner on the table for him every day he gets home from his stressful but profitable engineering job. Then, finally, when you think he’s made enough money, slip some arsenic into his dinner. Take the money and run.
Meet me in Vienna, outside the Wien Museum that we chose as a meeting spot only because it reminds us of the word wiener. Confess your love to me. Move into an apartment together under fake identities, living wealthily in Europe. Come to bed with me. Have some wine. Start feeling a weird cramping in your stomach. What could this be? Watch me as I tell you I’ve poisoned your wine with arsenic — the same way you killed your dead husband. I take the money and leave. You die a painful death. I’m now living in France, under a false identity, with enormous wealth, but that’s not enough for me. I need more. I plot to steal the Mona Lisa. But wait! You never died. You’re watching me from the shadows. You plan to foil my plot to break into the Louvre. We reunite mid-robbery. I confess that I’ve loved you all this time. We get caught. We get arrested together — or so you think. You realize I’m actually in cahoots with the security at the Louvre and I’ve made off with the Mona Lisa — only to bring it back to Canada, where I’ve met up with your not-actually dead husband because you clearly don’t know enough about arsenic, and your ex and myself live happily ever after. Sound good?
Love, Peakie
