Congratulations Florida!

You’re a 23 year-old woman named Florida who dresses exclusively in bikini tops and jean shorts (which we still like to call jorts). Your nickname comes from the fact that, given the way you dress and live, you could only survive in Florida, specifically in Miami in your parent’s guest house.

Anyhow you’ll be cruising the beaches with your just-too-chubby and just-too-skinny friends, looking your best after a three hour spa session paid for entirely by your parents and grand parents when the three of you get into a bit of a tizzy about which one is second prettiest.

You try to keep telling them it doesn’t matter, since they’re essentially visual noise next to you, but they won’t listen. They’ll just keep yammering on and on about how they have feelings too and bullshit like that. After about twenty seconds you’ll just walk away from them, patience exhausted.

As you walk away you’ll flip them the bird and shout as loud as you can “My life is hard too!” This will draw the attention of every single person on the beach and as you trounce back to your Pontiac Trans Am, a car synonymous with the sort of douchebag you are, a man in a suit will approach you.

He’ll introduce himself as Tyller, with two ls. He’ll be a producer for MTV who specializes in putting vapid, asinine princesses in front of cameras and video taping their temper tantrums. He’ll tell you you’d form a perfect postmodern counterpoint to the Hills. He’ll be surprisingly intelligent, given what he does for a living.

You’ll jump in the air and shout “ohmygod,” just like that, as one syllable, and he’ll pull the paperwork out of his briefcase like a fucking magician.

This will begin your brief and spectacular career as a reality-TV “star.” Congratulations Florida! We look forward to changing the channel every time we see your face or hear your voice.