I’m “Nikki Jacobs,” a full-time copywriter and editor. I used to run what − I thought − was an anonymous blog about the myriad people, trends, and eyeball injuries that exasperate my anxiety disorder − until an exec at my work discovered it.
Let’s just say that overhearing Centrum Silver concur with my opinion on the state of inappropriate loofah-color choices in today’s rap videos freaked me the F out. Not just because he agreed Reh Dogg had selected a hue that was clearly an ironic homage to feminism in a misogynistic cultural landscape, but also because: How the hell had he stumbled across my Ambien-fueled rants?
Doing a six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon type analysis, I concluded there were only two suspects who could have outed me. But which one had narc’ed? And how far had word spread? Who else had read my scathing critique of vejazzling replacing merkins as the new clitstache? How many coworkers were aware of my petition to elect Wolverine as the off-Broadway star of Fifty Shades of Gay? (God, that would be hot. But would it be as kinky as the book? That Christian Grey did more fisting than Jim Henson.) But wait, where was I? Oh yeah. The betrayal! The panic! The exposure paralyzed my typing finger, suspended my posts, and sent me spiraling down the dizzying neon-blue toilet flush of depression that occurs when I can’t process life by writing about it.
The more I shyness-censored myself into silence, the more Mob Wives reruns and Guinness I consumed. The constant influx of alcohol and Rene Graziano’s screams of rage led to feelings of nihilism and hearing impairment. Running low on beer and high on anxiety, I had to admit I had a problem; I had to bitchslap myself out of this funk before my liver and ear canals sustained irreparable damage.
I realized that, to maintain a modicum of sanity, I need to write without censorship, self-imposed or otherwise. To motivate myself to do that, I need to feel like I’m talking to just one person out there in the internet abyss who’s just like me. To open up and write to you, my imaginary friend, I need to know no one else is reading. And that no-one-else includes the sexy silver fox who cyberstalked me. I needed a new anonymous space. To create that space, to motivate myself to write, to talk to you alone, I needed what any sane adult requires: Bieber on a Unicorn.com.
As you can imagine, this wasn’t an easy decision. I had a lot of factors to consider, Venn diagrams to construct. Did the pros of Mr. T on a Pegasus outweigh the potential of Rihanna on the Luck Dragon? And what about Tom Cruise on a Centaur? I worried that may have a better ring to it; same with Unicorn Obesity Pandemic, which offered the added benefits of solving an international health crisis and synergizing my marketing efforts for my (cow)bell choir of the same name.
In the end, a prepubescent Canadian pop star riding a mythical uni-horned horse-ceratops was the only logical choice for a URL. And that’s really what this site is all about. Well, that and the myriad people, trends, and eyeball injuries that exasperate my guano crazy anxiety disorder.