THE FAB DISASTER

just your average hot mess trying to make it in the city


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Everything I Need to Know About Life I Learned From Ke$ha

Poor Ke$ha. When people aren’t freaking out about Chris Brown and Rihanna doing a remix together or about how amazing/stupid/irrelevant Lady Gaga is, they spend an awful lot of time ragging on her for silly things like “lack of talent” and “being annoying.” We can agree to disagree on whether these things are actually important when it comes to pop music; I personally think viral melodies and a decent internet personality are reason enough to worship someone. But I am not here to sell Ke$ha singles or to convince the masses they need to honor the dollar sign in her name (which you should, really, but that’s fine). I am here to show that beneath the seizure-inducing vocal fry and the bedazzled-at-home body parts is a truly admirable person who has changed my life by bestowing the following wisdom.

How to brush my teeth. About six months ago I purchased my first electronic toothbrush as a lark. I realize I am about ten to twenty years late on this fad, and much like my 65-year-old father with regard to texting, I do not understand it nor see the point. Do I brush back and forth like I would with my Oral-B, or do I just slowly and awkwardly drag it across the surface of my teeth? It remains a mystery. Taking a cue from my mentor, I recently decided to chug a bottle of Jack Daniels before scrubbing the morning breath off my tongue each dawn. Instead of worrying about my brushing technique, I usually spend a good 45 minutes to an hour drooling over the sink before going back to bed. It seems to work fine.

How to spell. I used to think that most of the letters in the English language served a purpose, and that to articulate a point you should probably put the right ones in a particular order. But then Ke$ha started replacing S’s with dollar signs and tweeting words like “Ledgendary.” The fan-made video for “Sleazy” proudly displays the lyrics as “I don’t need you or your brand new Bendz/or your boojy friends.” Intentional or not, misspelling is a part of Ke$ha Culture. And Y so many letters, bro? U $huld wryte moAr lyke thi$, we R who we R.

How to rap. I think sometimes people forget that while Ke$ha may not “technically” be a singer, she can definitely spit a baller tuneless rhyme. “Hey, I got a question/Do you wanna have a slumber party in my basement,” she shrieks in “Your Love is My Drug.” That is solid gold. The other day someone challenged me to a freestyle battle (I get challenged to a lot of these because I’m a white girl and people always assume I have crazy rap skills), so I took 12 jello shots, improv’d a cheerleading routine and totally won that shit. Thanks, Ke$ha!

How to feel about “personal hygiene.” Ke$ha takes a lot of pride in the fact that she always looks like she is wearing something she stole from Forever 21 or found in a dumpster behind the studios for Ru Paul’s Drag Race. Her hair is usually in an amorphous net of dreadlocks, and she claims her daily makeup routine is as a simple as never washing her face.  As I write this I am struggling to remember the last time I actually showered. Most of my clothes actually are, admittedly, from Forever 21 or shredded crop-tops from the Salvation Army. I had a meeting this morning at 9 am, which naturally I was late for, so I put half a bottle of baby powder on my greasy bottle-blonde roots instead of actually cleaning myself. All of this is because I am both lazy and pretty hilariously poor. But I never have to feel like the trampy homeless person I so clearly embody. Instead I get to feel like a superstar with a catchy, relentlessly ubiquitous pop album. Do not ruin this for me.

How to stick to my guns. When we first heard The Ke$h whine the last line of “Your Love is My Drug” and sign off with a giggle and the super irrelevant, pseudo-quirky quip “I like your beard,” you all thought she was just trying to be cute. Oh don’t mind her, she’s just being a drunk bitch again. Well, you were wrong. Ke$ha actually loves beards IRL and has gone to great/predictable lengths to prove that she was serious. By that I mean, she made a Tumblr about it. Consider going to putyourbeardinmymouth.tumblr.com for low quality proof of Ke$ha’s facial hair fetish. She even takes submissions! This is obviously not some fad. It is nothing short of social activism.

How to get famous. Give head to Flo Rida. At least once.

How to not give a fuck, ever. Yeah, she comes off as slightly obnoxious. Sure, she’s been known to make ignorant graphic jokes on the internet amidst a sea of typos. She dons socially unconscious tribal apparel unapologetically. Nearly all of her songs are about the same typical party in the same brain-meltingly catchy tune. But how can you be mad at someone who is having that much fun? In the years since she’s been on the map, I’ve learned that you can’t let haters stop you from being yourself, whether that involves having dance parties on elephants or getting that Wingdings tattoo I always wanted. I have finally figured out how to liberate myself from self-consciousness, because that’s what Ke$ha, as an entity and a lifestyle, is all about.


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things I did and didn’t do (but mostly did)

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It’s 3-ish in the morning and I’m halfway through my third beer, so I recognize that I owe you all a brief apology. Fine. I should blog more. I mean, what else am I doing besides gchatting with my ~new boyfriend~, working 40 hours a week at a fucking health food store, and listening to the same J. Cole songs over and over…

I’ve been back and forth to Brooklyn a lot recently because {SHYAMALAN} I am no longer bullshitting about moving to New York. I still don’t have a “REAL JOB” but that is neither here nor there. Worst comes to worst I can always do the cooking dance for change in the Bedford L stop (Hipsters don’t have change. Card swiper. I’ll have a card swiper). In between playing live-in girlfriend every other weekend and flipping fucking milk at Whole Foods I have, admittedly, fallen slightly off in the club scene. The above photo is from the Art Department show at Cielo…like twenty actual days ago. Who am I?

My boyfriend, who is also a writer and actually gets paid to be one (that is a thing) is afraid of a lot of stuff. When I came to visit him the first time in New York he was super “not into getting hit by cars,” and would like, wait before crossing the street. Similarly, and probably with just as good a reason, he is under the impression that you have to maintain innocence and mystery on the internet in order to get hired for anything ever. Meaning you cannot by any means mention that you have seen a drug in your entire life or have had a sex premaritally, and maybe you shouldn’t include links to pictures of your asscrack on your blog. The things they don’t teach you in college…

That being said, I can’t tell you what happened the night I took my sister out to the Station for Unwind two weeks ago. I can’t tell you how old she is and I definitely can’t tell you how old they thought she was, because I don’t know. I can’t tell you why they kicked us out, or what a certain someone did in the trashcan of their bathroom before we actually left (hint: someone pooped in it).

I can’t tell you who drove Pepe le Pew-level wasted that night. I can’t tell you who met a random (potentially homeless) barely-legal young lad on the sidewalk and hooked up with him in the back of that car. I can’t tell you what pool we may or may not have broken into, or how many u-turns we took in the middle of the street to get there. I shan’t name the person who shoved themselves into a styrofoam life preserver, which then got stuck, leaving that person with no choice but to drive around the rest of the night with it around their waist, then try to saw it off with a blunt steak knife around 5 am. How many pairs of underwear are still in the floor of that car? How drunk was I still the next morning when I made that video of me eating all the string cheese? You will never know. Because I want a job someday.

Bill Clinton was once asked if he had ever tried weed and he said “yeah but I didn’t like it, I didn’t inhale, and I haven’t done it since” (to paraphrase). Bill lied about a lot of stuff in his day, and it almost never backfired. Luckily, I am not running for president in the 90s any time soon, so I don’t spend a lot of time skirting the truth. Times have fucking changed, haven’t they? Or would the Hunter S. Thompson of our day be ostracized to the ninth level of internet hell because of his Xanga entries from high school?

~WHO KNOWS Y’ALL~ I’m not sure what kind of balance between unabashedly insane and semi-reliable I am trying to strike at the moment, but I’m not going to worry about it too much. I mean, sure, my ego makes it hard for me to see oncoming traffic, but it’s also big enough that I could probably handle getting run over once or twice. …Right?


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Are you there, coma? It’s me, Kat st. Kat.

Late Monday night I took an effective dose of some mild painkillers and rode a bus 500 miles down the east coast. The following is an excerpt from my stream of consciousness.
“I am in a Long Distance Relationship with “another young writer” that lives in Brooklyn, United States.
On my way home from visiting him I have to take two busses. I am on the second, the megabus from washington dc to durham, and i can’t decide if i’m bored. I can’t decide if i am nervous about not having a ride to my house when i get to the stop at 4 in the morning. i can’t decide how fucked up i am after taking those two percocets. was the idea that i would sleep until i got home? i don’t remember. i think i’m having way more fun forcing myself to stay up so i can feel just how useless my brain has become. i am typing very slowly. i can’t remember if i already typed that. i am next to the emergency exit on the bus. for a while when the internet wasn’t working i debated pulling it to make a huge scene and express my frustration. the internet still doesn’t work but my second percocet kicked in and now i feel like one of those stress reliever balls. i feel like one of toro y moi’s synthesizers. i feel like one of the blockheads from gumby. i feel like anything on the show gumby. i feel like an animated video transition from I Love the 80s on vh1. i feel like i’m being given a swirly in a toilet filled with mashed potatoes. the thing about percocet is that it’s mostly tylenol.

i am listening to “Everybody Everybody” by Black Box, which is one of only 200 songs i put on the ipod nano that used to belong to my ex. i just reached to rub my itchy nose and on the way i slapped my mouth with what i thought was very little force but sure enough i am bleeding. Now I am listening to the song “Simple Things” by Zero 7 which is basically like taking three more percocets, lighting 50 tea candles and taking a bubble bath, except that instead of a bath I’m in a bus and instead of bubbles it is filled with some strangers.

shoutout to my boyfriend who is on a new york subway right now. i wonder if he is fucked up enough to pretend the random stranger next to him is just me and that we are still chillin. I’m trying to do that with the girl next to me but she has twist-outs which don’t look super flattering on white dudes.

if someone could keep a journal during a coma and we were able to compare notes…

but see when you’re in a coma you don’t have the luxury of making ridiculous faces in the dark because your face feels funny. so i win.

THE COMA DIARIES

SEX AND TEH COMA, BY ANNE FRANK

COMA ON EILEEN

JUST ME N MY COMA

COMA AND BEEZUS BY JUDY BLUME OR WHATEVER

-possible titles for a fake coma memoir

i could have packed like 5 more outfits in these bags under my eyes. i have to work at 9 am tomorrow/today which is pretty stupid. at work my friend Carl* who is on work leave from prison will be very excited to see me and the sugar skull i drew on a picture of what i think might have been a young queen elizabeth as a souvenir. Carl is my life coach. He teaches me about rising above the haters and following my dreams. He thinks i am going to write the great american novel. I have never mentioned wanting to write a novel. I might write a novel about Carl.

It feels like someone filled my ears with opium-infused marshmallow fluff. I keep seeing all this horse imagery on highway billboards and other than a vague curiosity i feel largely unaffected by this coincidence.

If listening to gucci mane makes you shed a single tear for your long distance boyfriend and crack a mona lisa smile while looking at the stars, scale of 1 to 10, how normal is that.

~

I feel pretty good about most things.”

*name has been changed


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Lemme Get Dat

Sometimes when I’m pretending to not be 100% broke I imagine what ridiculous, amazing things I would spend my invisible money on. On a good day I would describe my personal style as a combination of Ke$ha, Rihanna and Chloe Sevigny, a homeless person, an early 90’s drag queen and a Harajuku girl. What I’m saying is I try to wear a lot of leather and denim and glitter and tight stuff. IF I hadn’t gotten arrested that one time (it’s whatever) and didn’t owe more money around town than Bunny Lebowski, these are the things I would buy with my stupidly modest hourly wage.

Alexander Wang Wallie Gym Sack $595
We’ve established that I never go to the gym ever, and that’s fine. I would probably not want to get sweat all over this completely appropriately priced gem anyway.  But one of my favorite things is luxury loungewear, seeing as I spend my time like 50/50  on the couch and at the club. I am still on the hunt for the best designer sweatpants if anyone has suggestions.

Jeremy Scott for Linda Farrow North America Sunglasses $315
Jeremy Scott has never missed a beat in his entire career, I’m pretty sure. Would you wear these? Probably not. Do they look stupid on this model who is obviously still exhausted from her debutante ball and spending all that money on lipgloss at Clinique this morning? Yes, absolutely. More importantly, would this make it possible for gay dudes with James Dean haircuts to do lines of cocaine off of my face in the VIP lounge? You tell me.

KTZ harness bum bag $400
To be completely honest I decided that I wanted this before I realized what it actually is. In case you can’t really tell, this is essentially a fanny pack that looks just about the perfect size to hold a pack of Parliaments or an iphone, maybe both. This seems entirely necessary for three reasons: I am always losing shit, I enjoy having two free hands so I can do drunk cartwheels and tear both my hamstrings from time to time, and I’m trying to dip my toes into the world of BDSM without having to trudge through the process of picking a safe word (we tried using “Hitler” and have yet to decide if that’s fucked).

Black Milk Moonwalker Swimsuit $90
ONE SMALL STEP FOR MAN, ONE GIANT LEAP FOR HOW GOOD MY ASS LOOKS IN ONE PIECES.

Mishka Keep Watch leggings $65
When that movie Anastasia came out when we were kids I think it sucked and I hated it. But that year Burger King gave out these toys with their happy meals that were off-brand Beanie Baby versions of Anastasia characters, and one of them was just an eyeball. Why did my parents let me eat so much fast food? Times have really changed. But eyeballs are still cool and this is like, the only girl thing Mishka sells. I like them.

The Mountain green eyes cat shirt $20
Most of the time I find that the best clothes live at Opening Ceremony or at kitschy overpriced vintage stores. Other times there is an advertisement as a banner on my facebook page for a company called The Mountain, which has an entire collection of t-shirts that feature closeups of animal faces. They also have such categories as Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, the aptly named “Manimals,” and of course, the Three Wolf Moon.

Wildfox White Label fringe poncho $285
Wildfox is pretty hit or miss for me. Unlike their Couture label, which features mostly bedazzled sweatpants with terrible graphics on them, White Label is mostly stuff I would actually wear. And even though this Hey Dude applique is pretty questionable, I haven’t seen a lace/fringe combo this good since Miss Hannigan from Annie. Also I would probably buy anything modeled by someone with this hair color, so.

Jeffrey Campbell The Gil studded shoe $114
I see your creepers and your classic Mary Janes and I raise you four rows of silver toe spikes straight off the shell of Tokka (the mutant baby snapping turtle from  Ninja Turtles 2: Secret of the Ooze) a wooden wedge heel, and some silver leather. These shoes rule, Hi and Bye.

So do you think instead of paying my bills for the next 4 months I should just sell plasma and a kidney and buy this stuff instead? Yeah, same.

I’M GOING TO BE THE PRETTIEST GIRL AT THE BALL/HOMELESS SHELTER.

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