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    You Don't Look Fat, You Look Crazy: An Unapologetic Guide to Being Ambitchous
    You Don't Look Fat, You Look Crazy: An Unapologetic Guide to Being Ambitchous
    You Don't Look Fat, You Look Crazy: An Unapologetic Guide to Being Ambitchous
    Ebook172 pages57 minutes

    You Don't Look Fat, You Look Crazy: An Unapologetic Guide to Being Ambitchous

    By Ashley Longshore

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    About this ebook

    “Carpe diem, bitches.” —Ashley Longshore

    Pour a glass of champagne, slip off your designer heels, pull up your big girl panties and enjoy pop-artist extraordinaire Ashley Longshore’s unapologetic, raw, and literally laugh-out-loud funny guide to living an “ambitchous” life.

    For Ashley Longshore, the path from reluctant Southern Belle to badass artist and aspiring mogul hasn’t always been a smooth one. As a reformed Trophy-Wife-in-Training, Ashley has overcome failure, healed heartbreak, and worked damn hard, all with her signature killer attitude, to conquer the art world one glittery pop-art masterpiece at a time.

    You Don’t Look Fat, You Look Crazy is a window into the world of Longshore’s irreverent, glamorous, and stunningly visual pop-art-filled life, where bedazzled flowers sit next to diamonds and Valium boxes, Jesus holds a black Amex and Wonder Woman dresses in Chanel. With tongue-in-cheek advice straight from her canvas, such as  “There’s No Crying At Bergdorf’s,” “Always Ask For More,” and “What Would Blue Ivy Do,” Ashley’s honesty and DGAF attitude will grab you by your Givenchy lapels and hit you across the face with the donut you promised yourself you wouldn’t eat.

    So be confident, grab life by the Birkins, embrace your “ambitchion,” and remember, you don’t look fat—you look crazy! 
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRegan Arts.
    Release dateFeb 7, 2017
    ISBN9781682450451
    You Don't Look Fat, You Look Crazy: An Unapologetic Guide to Being Ambitchous

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      Book preview

      You Don't Look Fat, You Look Crazy - Ashley Longshore

      1

      My Name Is Ashley Motherfucking Longshore

      OKAY, Y’ALL listen, you. You bought this book—you asked—so here it goes.

      My name is Ashley Motherfucking Longshore. I’m a self-taught artist, originally from Montgomery, Alabama. I’m an entrepreneur. I’m an American. I’m a woman. And I am really grateful to have been born in this wonderful motherfucking country.

      Here’s the thing, though. Growing up in the South, I was raised to be a trophy wife, to be the chair of one thing or another, to espouse meaningless causes, to be president of the Junior League or secretary of the Garden Club, or all of the above. I should be driving a Mercedes-Benz SUV full of screaming kids, rushing home to my lawyer husband, who won’t be back till late because he’s banging his trainer, but I didn’t go that route. That’s because I’m different. I was born different. I was the weird kid who got picked on because I had a big voice and a loud personality, and I insisted on doing things my way. Or not at all.

      Started early, too. All the way back in kindergarten. I had so much energy, my mother tried to exhaust me with extracurricular activities: ballet, tap, jazz, voice, gymnastics, swimming. Not painting, though. I was a ball of fire. Momma didn’t think I could sit still long enough to paint.

      That poor woman. Tried so hard to turn me into a Southern lady.

      "Why have you got to be so different, child? she’d say. Why can’t you be like these other darling girls?"

      I don’t know, I’d say. I’m sorry.

      And I wept. Because being different is challenging.

      I tried, though. Tried almost as hard as she did. I went to little-girl tea parties in the finest lace dresses. I went to kiddie balls. I wore a bonnet every Easter, for Christ’s sake, and if I took it off, I didn’t get to eat any of my yummy chocolate bunnies.

      And speaking of dudes on the cross, don’t get me started on Sunday school. What are we doing indoors in this sweltering heat, belting out sappy hymns and hollering hallelujahs? I mean, seriously, is this God’s way?

      As I got older, I tried to rein in my energy, but it wasn’t easy. I hated those starchy dresses and pinchy shoes. I hated having my hair done. I hated standing up straight, like those future home-wreckers of America, and learning how to smile from the inside.

      I DO DECLARE, MY MOTHER WOULD SAY, CLEARLY AT THE END OF HER ROPE. I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING TO BECOME OF YOU, SARAH ASHLEY.

      I do declare, my mother would say, clearly at the end of her rope. I don’t know what’s going to become of you, Sarah Ashley.

      That didn’t bode well. It gave me a lot of angst about the future. By the time I was a pubescent teen, I was already wondering: What is wrong with me? Why am I not thinking about the cotillion? And what’s all this talk about those new folks across the street not having the right pedigree? I thought pedigrees were for dogs?

      Then one fine day, shortly after I turned sixteen, my parents went away for the weekend. I threw a wild party to celebrate. Best party evah! Except in the middle of the wild festivities, my mother walked in unannounced and sent everyone home. She said she was psychic—had a feeling, turned that car right around, and sped the hell back.

      Found my stash, too. Was about to flush it down the toilet when she thought better of it and called the cops instead. Narced me the hell out. Her own daughter. To the cops. Asked me to narc out my friends, but I refused, of course, because I’m a true lady.

      They celebrated my difference. They let me be whatever I wanted to be. And you know what I was? A straight-A student, that’s what.

      You are your father’s child! my mother said in that lilting wail, the back of her hand pressed to her moist forehead. I can’t do this a moment longer. You, young lady, are going to boarding school.

      Oh, my God! Seriously? Best thing evah.

      I ended up at Brenau Academy, the oldest girls’ preparatory school in the sacred state of Georgia. And guess what, bitches, they loved me. They loved my energy. They celebrated my difference. They let me be whatever I wanted to be. And you know what I was? A straight-A student, that’s what. I got so many awards and commendations that people thought the system was rigged. I was voted Class Favorite and Most Likely to Succeed.

      Imagine that. Me. Miss Different.

      Momma, I’m gonna tell you where you can put that Easter bonnet.

      2

      Painting Masturbating Couples in Montana

      AFTER GRADUATING with honors, I went to Ole Miss, to make my parents happy. Ole Miss felt like a cuntry club. (And yes, I spelled that correctly.) Sorority rush, my God—what is that? Pi Beta Phi this, bitches. Girls squealing with delight when they got in, fainting in horror when they didn’t. The mission of our blessed sorority is to promote friendship among accomplished young women. Excuse me for hurling.

      I lasted six weeks. Went home. Sorry, can’t do it.

      My mother was devastated.

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