by Shane Dawson
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This book is dedicated to my hilarious and caring mother. Thank you for giving me so much unconditional love and fuck you for giving me your fat arms and wonky eye.
CONTENTS
About the Art
I Hate Myselfie: An Introduction
My Destinee
My High School Musical
Two First Kisses
The Original Catfish
Between Hollywood and an Abortion Clinic
Denny’s and Death
My Birthday Suit
Internet Famous
How to Survive a Horror Movie
The Mean Girl Got Fat
My Girl (SPACE) Friends
My Strange Addictions
YouTube Got Me Fired
Astral Projection
Just a Pretty Face
My Leg Twin
Shocktuber
Prom
Acknowledgments
ABOUT THE ART
I have a lot of really talented fans. So I thought it would be fun to ask some of them to create pictures inspired by the essays. I sent each of them an excerpt and asked him or her to draw whatever they felt like. As you’ll see, the results are sometimes amazing, sometimes hilarious, and always unflattering, considering I have a VERY hard face to draw.
I HATE MYSELFIE: AN INTRODUCTION
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Isabella Piccione is currently a freshman in high school and has had a passion for art for as long as she can remember. She lives in Connecticut, and you can follow her on Twitter at @stylesftdawson.
Hi. I’m Shane Dawson. Some of you might know me from my videos on the internet. Some of you might know me from the movie I directed entitled Not Cool. And some of you might know me as the guy you saw on the cover of this book who has an incredibly punchable face. I’m all of those things and more! I also have an incredibly punchable body, but none of you will ever get to see that.
For the record, I don’t really hate myself, but I do hate the way I portray myself online. Hence, “myselfie.” See what I did there? Online I’m this loud, outrageous, confident guy who acts like nothing bothers him and he has the whole world at his fingertips. In reality, I’m a shy, quiet guy who would rather spend his nights lying in bed watching Netflix than being a valuable member of society. If I could spend my entire life underneath a heating blanket with a handful of my own balls I would happily do so.
I’m not saying that I don’t like the stuff I put out into the world, because I genuinely enjoy my videos and think they are funny. What I’m saying is that I embrace the fact that I have a punchable face, and that if I could punch myself without feeling it I would. Sometimes I scroll through my Instagram page and audibly groan. What is the point of posting four pictures a day of yourself doing the same duck face in four different locations? If you go through my Instagram feed it’s like a flip book of me thinking I’m WAY more attractive than I am. It’s nauseating. But feel free to follow me at @SHANEDAWSON! You can also follow me on Twitter, where I post important tweets like: “I think I just pooped blood. Should I go to the doctor? Nvmd, just gonna google it,” and “Ugh. Is Emma Stone still a thing? Can that be over yet?” It gets really deep. I’m a social warrior, clearly.
In this book, you’ll get to see the real me, not the “me” you see on YouTube. You will get to know what’s really in my head, and I’m warning you it’s not pretty. It’s a twisted land of self-hatred, sadness, and lots of repressed anger toward every person who’s ever hurt me. ENJOY! Don’t worry, I threw in some dick and fart jokes to make the stories a little easier to handle. Kind of like mixing in some peanut butter with your medicine, which by the way my mom used to do. You haven’t lived till you’ve had a Vicodin peanut butter marshmallow fluff sandwich. I can still taste the numbing of my emotions. Delicious.
I urge you to sit back, enjoy, and know that in the end things have gotten better for me. And they will for you too, if that’s anything you’re worried about. Feel free to laugh at my misfortune and get that feeling of “Wow, my life is SO much better than THAT guy’s.”
Obviously joking but semi-serious,
Shane Dawson
MY DESTINEE
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Anna Siefken has been drawing her entire life, but it wasn’t until an art class in the sixth grade that she decided to start taking it seriously. She currently resides in Norwalk, Connecticut, and, at just fifteen years old, spends her days drawing, designing shirts, and making YouTube videos. You can find some of her designs at pistachiothegreat.spreadshirt.com.
Nothing gives me more anxiety than getting a haircut. Just the thought of going to a salon—I mean barber—and having a stranger touch my head while asking me personal questions about my life makes my nerves shoot through the roof. It’s the same feeling a wicker chair gets when a circa-2006 Kelly Clarkson takes a seat. TENSE. But sometimes you have to bite the bullet and let Kelly Clarkson sit on your face. The day after my high school graduation was one of those times. I had rocked the same shoulder-length frizzy do since I was twelve years old, and the style had run its course. There was only so much I could do with it. Actually there were only three things I could do with it: wash it, let it air-dry, and pray to God I didn’t get lice. My hair was lice’s dream habitat. The amount of poof and waves made it practically a tropical getaway for those little fuckers. I’m sure every time I walked by a homeless dude his lice would only WISH they were having an adventure in my twisted, knotted labyrinth of a hairdo. I might not have had girls double-taking when I walked by, but damn it, the lice wanted a motherfucking piece.
So one hot Monday afternoon in June of 2006 I pulled into a shopping center parking lot and stared at the SUPERCUTS sign that was casting a shadow on my car. This was the day. I had prepared myself for this moment for weeks, and I was ready. I took a deep breath, took a bite of a protein cookie—which, let’s face it, was just a cookie—and stumbled through the door with fear in my eyes. The woman at the register looked up at me with a welcoming smile and asked what she could do for me. I asked for a haircut. She paused. Awkward silence. Then she said, “Women or men’s?” Yep. It was definitely time for a haircut. She walked me over to the station and I looked around, scoping out what the situation was. The situation was pretty clear: these people had NO fucking idea what they were doing and it smelled like El Pollo Loco had farted and locked the doors for two weeks. I was too lazy to find another salon—I mean barber—so I just sat in a stained purple swivel chair and awaited my fate.
Receptionist: Destinee will be with you soon. She’s in the back talking to her ex-husband on the phone.
Me: Definitely didn’t need all that information, but thank you.
So I sat and flipped through a Spanish version of People magazine from fifteen years ago, thinking, “Wow, I don’t know who this Selena chick is but she is DEFINITELY going places!” As I skimmed through the magazine my Razr phone started vibrating and playing Ashlee Simpson’s “Pieces of Me.” It was my mom calling.
Me: Hey, Mom.
Mom: Did you do it yet?!
Me: No. Still waiting. I think my stylist is in the middle of a custody battle right now.
Mom: Oh! Fun! Are you excited?!
Me: Not really. I’m scared she’s gonna make me look like a troll doll.
Me: Not really the response I was looking for, but thanks, Mom.
Mom: Well, call me when you’re done! And email me a picture on your pager!
Me: That makes no sense.
Mom: Love you!
As I reached for another decade-old magazine my “stylist” walked up to greet me. I put “stylist” in quotes because her cosmetology certificate looked like it was printed on the back of a Denny’s placemat. My expectations for this haircut were about the same as when I walk into an Eddie Murphy movie. I know it’s going to be bad, but maybe it will give people a few laughs. I like to spread joy even if it’s at my expense.
I looked her up and down, and my expectations went from an Eddie Murphy movie to any Adam Sandler film made after 2008. This situation was Grown Ups bad. It looked like she had cut her hair without scissors and had instead chosen to cover her head in peanut butter and raw meat and hang upside down from a tree branch in a dog park. She was wearing one of those shitty Halloween shirts that said “This IS my costume.” Did I mention it was June? She had hoop earrings so big I could have hanged myself with them, which I thought would come in handy if the haircut went as horribly as I suspected it would. She took a sip of the world’s biggest Starbucks Frappuccino and let out a small uncontainable burp. This was going great.
Destinee: So, what do you want?
Me: For you to tell me that you are just another sassy front-desk person and Destinee is still in the back screaming at her baby daddy?
Destinee: Nope. I’m your Destinee.
Me: That pun is particularly terrifying. I’m going to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.
At that moment I wished I was in a horror film, because “I’ll be right back” usually means you aren’t going to be back, you’re going to die. I wished I was dead. Now, I know what you’re thinking: why didn’t I just leave? Because I have a syndrome called No Balls Disorder, that’s why. Basically I have no fucking balls and I say yes to everything to avoid conflict. I’ve gotten better at it with age but at this time I was eighteen and terrified of everything and everyone around me. Including wicker furniture.
I went into the bathroom and locked the door. I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself. I tried to make myself see something that wasn’t there: a great hairstyle. Maybe if I could convince myself that my hair looked ok the way it was I could just get out of there and never get a haircut ever again? Ya, that seemed doable. I took out my phone and started taking hundreds of selfies. Different angles, different faces, lots of filters. I was trying my hardest to find at least one picture where I felt like I didn’t look completely unattractive. It didn’t happen. It made it worse. After the bathroom photo shoot I decided it was time to go back out there and face my Destinee.
Me: I need help. I’m scared. Can you please make me look like less of a lesbian?
Destinee: Awww, don’t be so down on yourself. And people shouldn’t judge you by your hair or by your lifestyle.
She thought I was a woman. Perfect. At this point I wanted to just shave my fucking head.
Me: Can you just make me look like a guy?
Destinee: Any specific guy? Did you look through my magazines?
Me: I don’t really think I can pull off Enrique Iglesias from ten years ago, so maybe just make me look like Brad Pitt?
Silence. Challenge not accepted. Out of the realm of possibility.
Me: Ok . . . how about Jay Leno?
Destinee: Jay Leno? Nobody wants to fuck Jay Leno.
Me: My grandmother strongly disagrees, but ok, noted.
Destinee: Just trust me. I’m gonna just do my thing.
Judging from her personal style and the zero customers in line for her, I couldn’t imagine her “thing” being revolutionary, but she was my only hope. She grabbed the scissors, then looked at my head for a moment, put the scissors back down, and replaced them with the biggest set of electric clippers I’ve ever seen. This wasn’t a job for flimsy pieces of metal; this was a job for something that could mow a lawn. I avoided looking at the mirror because I didn’t want to see the damage being done. Similar to how when I eat at a restaurant I keep my eyes clear of any reflective surface. I looked down at my lap and saw chunks of hair gathering near my crotch. The amount of nappy dandruff-sprinkled hair that was falling from my head made it look like God was shaving his ancient pubes. It was of biblical proportions. I then heard something that you never want to hear a hairstylist mutter.
Destinee: Oops.
Oops?! OOPS?! You better have spilled some of your Starbucks fattaccino on my smock because if that “oops” is in any way related to my haircut I WILL ONE-STAR-YELP YOU SO HARD YOU’LL HAVE TO CHANGE YOUR FUCKING NAME AND MOVE TO CANADA! (Yelp wasn’t really a thing back then but hey, you get the point.)
Destinee: I think I took a little too much off the back. I might have to even it out. Are you ok with that?
Am I OK WITH THAT?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, YOU BARELY GED-ACHIEVING, TACKY-DRESSED SNAGGLE-TOOTHED CUNT?! NO! This was NOT ok!
Me: Sure.
Once again, No Balls Disorder. Like any girl having sex with Hugh Hefner, I just closed my eyes and waited for it to be over. I heard the sound of the clippers turning off and a loud sigh come from the disaster behind me. It was time to see what my head looked like. I opened my eyes and what I saw wasn’t a haircut, it was a hair MASSACRE. It was bed head if I slept on a bed of starving rats. It was so short I could see my eyebrows, and NOBODY wants to see that.
Me: It’s . . . short.
Destinee: Ya. But it looks super . . . umm . . . sexy?
I still can’t believe she said that without thurping.
Destinee: You know . . . there is a way to make it look longer.
Me: Nah, I’ve gotten that email before. Trust me, it’s a scam.
Destinee: We could always straighten it.
Straighten it? What does that mean? How does one . . . straighten? Like one of those creepy Christian camps that weirdo parents send their gay kids to?
Me: What do you mean?
She whipped out a large phallic object and turned it on “extra high.”
Destinee: I’ll show you.
I wish books could have movie montages, because the next twenty minutes were straight out of a nineties Freddie Prinze Jr. movie. I was the ugly girl and Destinee was my slutty sister giving me a makeover. I was going from “ugly” to “not as ugly if you squint your eyes a little.” It was a dream come true. After lots of clamping, straightening, and the scent of burned hair, she was done. I looked in the mirror and I actually didn’t look THAT terrible! It was a miracle!
Little did she know she’d created a monster. From that day forward I’ve never met a straightener I didn’t DESTROY with my nappy-ass hair. If it were possible to marry a straightener I would. I would figure out a way to consummate that marriage. It would be super gross and slightly dangerous but I would do it.
I went to my car and breathed a huge sigh of relief. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and stared at the new me. I wasn’t the prettiest girl at the prom but I was definitely good enough to get date raped.
BING.
My mom texted me asking for a picture of my new look. I opened up my camera and took a picture. I looked at it and shockingly, I was happy with it. I didn’t have to take a thousand, I didn’t have to get fifty different angles, I didn’t even need a filter. I was happy with it the way it was, for the first time in a long time. Click.
SENT.
MY HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Michelle Mendes is an eighteen-year-old artist from the land Down Under—Australia! She has loved to draw ever since she was old enough to hold a pencil. Her skills have expanded over the years, ranging from all different styles of media and art. You can follow her on Tw
itter at @Michelle25696 and on Instagram at @MICHELLE25696.
Lots of high schools are known for something. Football, sex scandals, shootings, or, more often than not, a yearly musical. My school wasn’t known for anything besides having a principal who died while eating a hot dog. We weren’t very good at anything in particular. Nothing set us apart from the rival schools and we were usually parents’ second choice on where to send their kids. The school three miles down the road was famous for a multitude of things. They had a killer football team, and they had no sexual predators on staff. Mary-Kate and Ashley even filmed episodes for one of their shows there a few years back. Analogy: if the school district had been the parent, then that school would have been the golden child and we would have been the child with one leg longer than the other. But that didn’t stop us from trying!
Every year our school would put on a disaster known as the spring musical. It was chock-full of bad acting, nervous onstage vomiting, and some sort of love triangle between a girl and two guys. But usually the girl was thrown to the side, if you catch my drift. It was a yearly event that I stayed as far away from as I could. Until my senior year.
I was one of those kids who would do whatever my friends wanted even if I knew it was wrong. The number of times we went through a Del Taco drive-through and acted like we had Tourette’s syndrome was countless. The leader of my group was a girl named Tara. She was a fun, loud free spirit with more sexual experience than most of the teachers. And that’s a fact. There was a rumor that she gave one of our teachers the clap. She was everything I wanted to be (minus the clap part). She wasn’t afraid to take fashion risks or hit on strangers. Life was her chem lab, and she was constantly experimenting, whereas I was stuck in remedial math class adding up the consequences of any risk I could take. One day she came up to me with an idea I knew was bad from the second it left her dick-suckin’ lips.
