“Hi, I’m Missy, the head suicide girl. This is my story, every bit of it true, except the parts where i lie.
“In April of 2001, tired of Los Angeles and all it’s silicone filled diversions, I woke up one morning, grabbed my hello kitty waffle maker and a bottle of pre-mixed cosmopolitans and jumped into betty, my ’67 firebird convertible and hit the road.
“Somewhere around Barstow, cosmopolitan supply depleted, I realized that I was not on my way to Mexico, and I was in dire need of something to ease the pain of a complete and utter abscense of potato tacos.
“Finding myself wandering the aisles of the local drugstore, looking for solace amongst the bubble bath and level 3 pharmaceuticals I noticed a strange cross-eyed guy following me with a video camera . . . “
” . . . I wanted to know every one of those girls: the punk girls, the goth girls, the raver girls, all of them. And Spooky, well he wanted to see them naked.”