I fired my therapist. She deserved it. I had originally hired her to help me through some of the stresses of moving to a new city, spending most of my time by myself, deciding the next move in my career, coming to terms with the way my upbringing has affected my relationships, you know, the usual shit. Once a week I would show up and crack my knuckles, excited to plow through these issues and move on with my life. She’d greet me in the waiting room with a meek, insincere half-smile. “How are you?” I’d ask her casually, to which she’d always respond “I’m okay.” Then she’d sit in silence and bored disapproval while I frowned out the window at the Empire State Building and psychoanalyzed myself. Sometimes I’d pause and look her way, inviting participation. She’d lift her chin abruptly as if startled from sleep, raise her eyebrows and make some empty comment like “you should do something about that.” I always left feeling very annoyed and slightly sorry for her. Was I the only person who could manage to pick a therapist more depressed than I was?
You all know that since the beginning of August I have singlehandedly held down New York for Team Big Things, getting by on my own with the help of the internet and the 4 friends I’ve made since I moved here. Much of TBT will be moving to Brooklyn in as soon as two weeks, and I am overcome with relief. I don’t even think I will realize how much it sucked to be here without them until I finally have them back. It’s texts like these that prove I will one day be back to norm again.
For a while I played with the idea of meeting some people on the internet, which was a bust for the most part. A few months back I made a fun OkCupid profile as a joke. I often make joke profiles on social networks I think might be dumb out of curiosity. This would explain how I got stuck with “ButtButt” as a foursquare name, “Catdookie” on instagram, and “Slutz[underscore]Taco” on OkCupid. Turns out people don’t think you are joking when you call yourself a Slutz_Taco on a dating website. They truly think you will sleep with them even if they look like a sea monster made of turds and use pick up lines like these: God bless these fools. Nevertheless, I could not shake my desire for new mans. And attention in general, really. In a dramatic turn of events, it was the dumbness of the internet that eventually brought me together with a boothang. Snapchat, specifically. Have you ever snapchatted your phone number to someone in the middle of the night? If you haven’t, it is a great way to start a romantic rendezvous with your celebrity crush. I give it 5 out of 5 stars.
If you live in New York (and maybe even if you don’t, but I can’t say for sure), you’ve probably realized that A LOT of people have been getting sick with colds and haven’t been able to shake them for up to two fucking months. I’m not saying it’s a government conspiracy (CHEMTRAILS) but it has definitely affected me quite a bit and that has definitely sucked.
^Here is a picture of me with a 102 degree fever after I sleepwalked to the corner store and bought a shit ton of cereal.
I’ve been to the doctor 3 times in the last month and in the meantime I have been slacking on all my other appointments. My cats are due for a teeth cleaning (do other people do this?) and it’s been so long since I’ve gotten brazilian that I’m positive my Bikini Artist is going to laugh in my face the next time I hit the spa.
When I’m NOT texting my new boo and nursing an illness sometimes I go out to public locations and alter my mind. I’m not sure what actually happens at these functions besides taking selfies but what else am I trying to do really? It should also be mentioned that I quit my job at the salon to start working on a TV show. Before I started this new “gig” I had the privilege of dipping down to North Carolina for a bit of fun, the photos of which I will unload later. It’s too much glamour and beauty and suburbia for this particular post.
WHILE I WAS GONE it brightened up substantially around the city and I have been loving it. Honestly if you would just follow me on instagram @catdookie I wouldn’t have to repost these here and it would be far more convenient for me overall. Cute, right? Now that winter is officially over and life officially no longer sucks, I’ve rediscovered the fun of walking around the city aimlessly. Also I think Jadakiss lives in my neighborhood. My new job is fabulous and great and everything you’d expect. I even made a new BEST FRIEND to add to the collection. It really helps to have a person around for moral support while you’re ruining your manicure and eating far too much craft services. I’m not sure how long this particular job will last because the end of the season is near, so I gotta get in as much free food as possible before then. I actually think I may be physically addicted to terrible food at this point. My hours at work are so crazy that I don’t really have the time (or fucks) for grocery shopping, so GrubHub is essentially my livelihood. The other day I ate no less than four kinds of fried seafood out of a cardboard box, and last week I ordered Chinese THREE times, one of which was just after I had finished eating Chinese. I never regret it until I step out of bed the next morning into a pile of empty takeout boxes. Then I feel just a bit gross.
Late hours do work well, though, with the fact that I like to stay up until 5 am playing with my hair (or having sex). Hannah got a job at a new salon where she gave me a brand new cut and color, and helped me style my fun new clip-in extensions. If you live in the city you should definitely check out Foster Glorioso at 5 East 19th Street. It’s super gorgeous and beyond chill. Plus they have wine! ^Here we are on our way to the FIRST bachelorette party I’d ever been to. Our friend Lisa celebrated the end of her freedom and I spent all of my fucking money on male strippers! It was fun, but they should have been tipping MY ass…like, do you even see this weave? (Truly I’m kidding, these extensions were cheap as hell and take forever to put in, so mostly I’ve been rocking my new REAL hair a la Uma in Pulp Fiction on a good day. Still though.)
Yyyyeah, I’m still broke, I’m still crazy, and I still have a dead rat in my backyard (in case you were wondering). But I have a new job and new look so like, move over. ‘Cause this is a competition, and I am here 2 win.
I have officially been wearing the same clothes for two days and I smell like chicken noodle soup. I just got home, carrying hair products, birth control and a burrito in the same paper bag. I’m googling “sad diva” and looking at the images. I haven’t done much today and it hasn’t felt like much either, which is good. Sometimes nothing feels a lot like everything.
Last week I had big plans. That is, relatively. I was going to get my first massage on Monday, go to yoga on Tuesday and then to meet my new therapist. On Friday I’d have a job interview. Of course all the time in between I’d be at my current job, but I was excited for all of these new opportunities to relax and reflect. I’d been feeling more and more anxious lately which I thought might have been a symptom of PMS, or the general stress of not knowing what to do next with my life. Or, you know, both.
The massage was awkward. I had a man’s hands all over me. I hadn’t had sex in a month. The entire time I was horny and trying not to fart. How was I supposed to relax? I left with a stomach ache, my shoulders still sore.
On Tuesday I was so whacked out and paranoid during yoga I spent the whole meditation worried the class was running over and I was going to be late for therapy. The class ran over. I was 20 minutes late for the meeting with my new therapist where I was greeted with one of those “I’m disappointed in you” smiles you get from a parent when you fake sick, only it was especially awkward since we had never met. I had forgotten to print out the paperwork and bring it with me to the session. This was starting off on the wrong foot already. What if she thinks I’m crazy? What if I am crazy? Fuck, am I crazy? We talked about my “life” as much as we could in the 20 minutes we had. I found out later there is a problem with my insurance, so my copay for that session was $115. Afterwards I changed out of my yoga clothes and did my hair and makeup in the bathroom at work.
On Thursday I went out. Winston was djing at Cocktail Bodega where there was an open bar, so I had about 5 vodka grapefruits and we left. On the way home we found a cardboard box filled with no less than 1000 Lifestyles ultra lubricated condoms and some children’s books. I decided to carry it all home with me just in case.
The following afternoon I had my interview, which I’ve now overanalyzed it to the point that I have absolutely no idea if it went well or not. But the best thing that happened to me all week was when the founder of the company came over, stared at my resume with a lifeless expression and said, “It looks like you’re a writer.”
Saturday night I bought a $20 dress from Necessary Clothing and went out to Dizzyland by myself, piss drunk. Aside from the train ride to the Spectrum and taking shots of Wild Turkey all I have is the hazy memory of dancing with some guy and then making a run for it. And apparently taking this selfie on the street. I think I was going for “violently adorable.”
What happened after that remains unclear, so the next morning I looked for signs of what might have transpired. I woke up with wet hair. I was in my pajamas. Lars and the Real Girl was paused on my computer ten minutes in. There was an empty cereal bowl and a bag of chips in bed with me. On the floor, my new dress was wet from the waist down. A red electric blanket I didn’t recognize was laying next to my condom box. I suddenly had a few frames of memory. Something about shivering in an alley, my legs curled up in my dress, and looking up at the Montrose L station mere steps away and thinking “there’s no way I can make it there.” Something about a yellow cab. Something about a blanket. I don’t remember paying a cab driver. Maybe I didn’t.
I spent the day hungover and laughing it off.
That night was the moment some had been waiting for! And the one I had kind of forgotten about. The Oscars are never really a huge deal to me because I suck at seeing movies the year that they actually come out. The only movie I saw in theaters in 2012 was Pitch Perfect. Not that I’m proud of that, it’s just true.
“But why?” you ask. “For the price of a burrito and some chips you could go see a movie.”
to which I say, conversely, for the price of seeing a movie I could have a burrito. And some chips.
Of course there is always illegally streaming which I looove to do. The only TV I have is this tiny 90s Panasonic that I use for N64, and cable is just so not in my budget right now. I was able to find a live stream of the Oscars just in time for the tail end of the red carpet. The Seth MacFarlane thing was somewhat painful but most of it was funny/chill and needed to be said, so I’m not mad at him. I suppose it is necessary for award shows to evolve like everything else to that level of extreme self reference.
My stream was abruptly taken down right before the good part and the only replacement I could find was a video mostly covered by ads. So I listened to the rest of the ceremony while imagining what Jennifer Lawrence’s butt looked like when she fell and what facial expressions complimented Ben Affleck’s shrieking falsetto.Since I was really high by that point, and since feeling sad is a sport, I decided at 12:30 to watch Silver Linings Playbook, a love story where crazy people do crazy things and sometimes it’s okay and sometimes it’s not but maybe we can all stop being crappy if we want and find love, or at least help each other, or at least not feel so stuck.
You all know I love to complain. It’s partly because I am a loud, bratty perfectionist incapable of being satisfied and partly because I enjoy finding the humor in my misfortune and sharing that humor with you people. So it should come as no surprise that even though I have reunited with nearly every one of my closest friends in the past four weeks I can only think about how being with said friends exhausted me completely and how I’ve since become physically ill.
When I returned to Brooklyn after Christmas I spent a few days working and trying to relax. When I unsurprisingly failed at that, I focused my efforts on frantic attempts to stave off the illness I’d been trying to avoid since November (swallowing 9 whole cloves of garlic per day, mainlining packets of emergen-c, spraying the homeless with Scrubbing Bubbles, etc). Sometimes I have to remind my body that I have shit to do, and a good handful of the most important people in my life were to arrive in mere hours.I primped and dustbusted every corner of my apartment in anticipation of everyone’s arrival, which was expected to be sometime around 7 am New Years Eve. Although I only had two guests staying with me that night, pieces of my crew were to be scattered all over the city for the next week or so. I even planned a dinner for that night at Chimu, the restaurant next to my building, to bring us all together in grand adult fashion. Of course, not one individual arrived at my house before the sun was down, and only about half the reservation showed up to the restaurant.
Y do I even try?
Never mind the epic of reasonable alibis each absent member provided. I suddenly knew just how my mother felt when I showed up at her house this (and every) Christmas hung over and two days late. When I got over the minimal ego bruise of the situation and realized the food was just as delicious as I knew it would be, it was time to change into the New Years outfit I’d had planned for a month and pop no less than three bottles of champagne. No need to start off the year with any drama. Although, in a way, that was exactly what were were about to do.
One by one they started filing in. Lil Kim, Tall Pat, Katy, Patrick, Matt, Kam and Connor joined Brad, Winston, Hannah, Coby, Peter and myself to briefly “pre-game” (something I’ve really got to find another name for) before heading to the drag show at Secret Project Robot…an event that boasted all any event need boast: free champagne and a Bushwick address.
I decided not to drink much to leave room for other activities. I was not about to have a repeat of Last New Years. 2012 was merely the beginning of my comeback. In 2013 I aim for perfection, beginning with my alcohol-to-drug ratio.
After we arrived, the ten dollar cover–five more dollars than we had expected—tore our crew into smaller, albeit much more manageable pieces. Those of us that made it through the door were served an ample supply of teased-wig realness, a good two hours of free champagne and all your favorite crowd-pleasing hits from the 2000s. Hannah and Winston were acting like total love bugs spreading PLUR all over the place despite the fact that Hannah could barely stand up after 11:30. At one point I was on Hannah-duty and kept having to sit her down on the bench outside while I went to get drinks or go pee. By the time we finally counted down to midnight everyone around me was totally loopy, either lip syncing for their dear lives across the dance floor or caught in a tear-filled heart to heart by the pinball machines. But all I could think about was how much my god damn feet were hurting, so before we went to the next party I stopped by my house to change my shoes.
Our next venue was oddly enough a Lutheran church in the heart of Bushwick. We entered through a dimly lit dirt basement where we checked our coats and spiraled up to the stairs to the main hall. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. What used to be a “house of God” was now a playground for heathens and insomniacs (that could afford the $60 entry fee). By this point I was so out of my mind all I could think was that it made sense. Finally a church had made itself useful to me. After I successfully over-vibed with everyone I was with to the point of toplessness, security started yelling at everyone to get out, presumably due to the rising sun. We waited for a cab in the freezing winds, checked our email and went to the second location. Inside the warehouse, the address of which remains unclear to me, we danced until our raggedy faces had fully drooped to the concrete floor (sometime around 10 am).
That day I slept as well as I could with the afternoon sun beaming through the curtain and into my eyes.
The few nights that followed were certified flops as I had to work and was otherwise useless, until that Thursday when Patrick and I decided to hoof it in Williamsburg and have just enough drinks to say rude things to people. We left just in time to eat all of the pizza, and I fell asleep with ranch in my lap watching Reno 911.
The next morning Patrick went to court to deal with that ticket we both got last summer (remember that time we trespassed like 6 months ago? Well I had pretty much forgotten about it too). I stayed home to fail at sleeping until Austin arrived and I skipped off to work. Afterward, in typical fashion, Patrick, Kim, Austin and I went to the Metropolitan, had some laughs, took some photos and left. And as usual, most of the fun was had on the train. But before going back to my apartment I made sure to stop by a nutritionally unsafe taqueria that was basically located in a trashcan under some stairs. I ordered a burrito situation that I drowned in 12 ounces of different hot sauces and immediately came down with a disturbing case of GUT ROT that lasted through the next day at work. I didn’t want to go out that night, but Bill had finally arrived and I couldn’t pussy out. On my way to the party I projectile vomited mid sentence on the sidewalk. I later continued to throw up in the toilet, and followed that up by drinking liquor and performing more than my share of 2009 antics, ie. runway walks back and forth in my brother’s apartment, things just flying up our noses, etc. For a minute I completely forgot we weren’t in my college living room. When we were finally heading to the bar, two of my friends got tickets for doubling in the subway turnstile before realizing the train wasn’t coming for another hour. We ended up just going to a bar in my neighborhood instead, and when we ultimately separated I decided to sleep out. This decision later left my friends stuck in the snow, desperately trying to get in touch with me (asleep, naked, fetal positioned me with a stomach ache in a boy’s bed). They ended up having to take a $50 cab to our friend’s house in Park Slope. Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of flopping lately. Perhaps I’m getting too old for this.
Sunday night, Austin and Bill were the only two visitors left standing. Refusing to stay in for even just one of our nights together, we dragged ourselves around Brooklyn aimlessly for hours looking for bars and restaurants that may have not even existed, before settling on Greek takeout and going home to watch Archer.
Could I fucking sleep now?
Like clockwork, I was immediately overtaken by the paralyzing cold that had been stalking me for weeks. I can’t breathe, I have chills, and I’m forced to work because I just spent my last five bucks on kitty litter. As I write this, snot is pouring onto my upper lip and I miss my friends terribly. But now that they’re gone, I have the freedom to sit here alone, removing my nail polish with Burger King napkins and watching all 7 seasons of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia in succession. And believe me, it’s just what the doctor ordered.
A good friend of mine said recently that December is the Sunday of the year, which might explain why in the few weeks after Thanksgiving I’d been feeling a strange combination of lethargic and anxious. I’d taken on more hours at what I refer to as my “day job,” thus falling into and perfecting a routine that gave me a sense of not entirely false responsibility and sent me to bed at a decent hour. In fact I’m almost certain that my most exciting nights leading up to the holidays were: 1) watching Contagion while babysitting in Prospect Park, 2) my worldview imploding at my workplace Christmas party when I smoked weed with my boss, and 3) getting my credit card rejected while trying to order a gin and tonic at an Irish pub on Crosby street.
Routine gives me the creeps. I’m always a worried that if I get too used to my life as it is I’ll wake up ten years from now and still be making $300 a week. I need change, I thought. I need to make moves! In a notebook I keep next to my bed I’d scrawl manic to-do lists and grandiose long term goals before waking up the next day with just enough time for the bare necessities, running all of my errands between the hours of 9 pm and 9 am. Who the hell had I become?
But I found some comfort in my friend’s observation. For as long as I can remember, that Sunday night feeling has been synonymous with the onset of a stomach flu or a category 5 identity crisis. But I’ve tried to accept over the years that there isn’t much you can do to change your life on a Sunday night. Nothing is open, everyone is checked out and home with their families. The only thing you can do you is reward your accomplishments, assess your failures and prepare yourself for the coming week.
I decided that now was the time to be kind to myself. This meant, of course, that I would focus all of my attention on my holiday plans, putting great emphasis on the best idea I’ve had all year (next to moving to New York)–
Combining host forces with Sarah Sassafrass and Jeffrey Scott, the idea was to collide each of our most precious social pockets into one massive North Carolina Holiday Extravaganza. I arrived that Saturday at RDU airport at 11:10 AM, feeling quite sprightly in spite of my 50 hour work week and 5:30 AM train ride from my apartment to JFK. After meeting my father at the baggage claim I instructed him (as we agreed) to take me promptly to Starbucks, then to the spa for an eyebrow wax, and then to the nearest Moe’s for a taco salad. It was the perfect entree into the Triangle after such prolonged absence (although I may regret for weeks to come the fact that I did not consume one morsel of Bojangle’s while I was in town). Following lunch, daddy-o dropped me at the St. Kat K-Mart (AKA Party City) where I met Sass and Katy to buy tinsel, a disco ball, costume accessories and miles upon miles of garland. Of course no one place was fully stocked with all our needs–one employee even served me a big plate of attitude over some twinkly lights–so we had to hit up a Target and a Big Lots and a Taco Bell before going home to decorate.
The rest of the day was spent taping black streamers into a web in the Lexington Drive hallway, covering every visible corner of every inanimate object with garland and taping an entire wall floor-to-ceiling in aluminum foil (for portrait backdrop purposes, of course). Around 7:30 we received a pleasant surprise when two girls from Red Bull rang the doorbell, said they saw our party on facebook and donated an absurd 48 free Red Bulls to the cause. I was sure it was a gift from the party gods as I was already on my last leg and I wasn’t even dressed yet.
Proving that you can lead a bitch to water but you can’t make her drink, I decided to have a sizable portion (the entire thing) of what someone called a “less than potent” weed brownie. Next thing I knew, my friends were already arriving and I was applying liquid eyeliner with rickety hands, one shoe on and my face nearly plastered to the mirror. Was I already losing it? I didn’t care. Somebody hand me my curling iron.
(the final version of my outfit that lasted about five minutes)
The rest was a whirlwind of fantastic fuckery. People I hadn’t seen in months, some in years, came out of the proverbial woodwork to dance in our tiny, iridescent living room. Winston Filet and Princess Hannah emerged from their influenza death beds to serve holiday disco realness. Haters became lovers, enemies became friends. Someone took a shot of formaldehyde from a jar of preserved goat brains (this was a half-horror party, after all) and vomited all over the carport. The police even stopped by for a bit around midnight and refused to dissipate despite my clear and audible instructions, leaving one cop standing disregarded at the entrance like the opening scene of Home Alone. We could not be stopped.
And then, I don’t know if it was the brownie or the natural exhaustion or the vodka I’d been mixing with champagne, but I was out. By 2 am (and that’s being generous), I had fallen asleep in Justin’s bed with my clothes still on, leaving the over-caffeinated partygoers under the supervision of my co-hosts.
I awoke the next morning in a beer-stained ball, forgetting for a minute whether I’d even made it to my own party. But as the southern sunlight glimmered off empty bottles of Andre and strangers still slept on the living room floor, I picked up Sarah’s camera and declared another a success. I couldn’t remember much at all, but it looked fabulous in the pictures.
Now usually I don’t do this but uh…(smoke inside, that is. but everyone else does it here and it’s THE WEEKEND and I’m by myself on my computer so…party. Also I spent the whole day doing yoga and looking at recipes on Pinterest I AM A DUAL PERSONALITY)
It’s been so long since I’ve been up front about my antics with you guys. As in, so long that I am about to tell you stories from October while currently planning my XXXmas party. Maybe I was sleeping on them because, well, October wasn’t the cutest of months and I am only now recovering. But I think…I think I’m ready.
It was the week of October Something, and Moe and Bradford, being the ONLY MEMBERS OF TEAM BIG THINGS THAT CARE ENOUGH, came up to visit me on their fall break. We kicked off the celebration by going to Wreck Room, a divey, Carrboro-esque bar with car seats as booths and graffiti scribbles everywhere and regular live noise-pop. Reuniting feelz so good, y’all. Pretty sure this was a “pinkies out for Bernie Mac” moment. Of course I started the night a little overconfident and splashed a 4 dollar beer in my eye right of the bat. No night is complete without some casual adult breast feeding and a little street-anal. The next day is when things started to get a little strange. By this point in the month I had somewhat successfully balanced my new job at the salon with drinking 40s at Winston’s and hosting visitors from home. I’d had the job for about two weeks, and although the ins and outs were still a little confusing I was getting the hang of it. I had almost forgotten that a few weeks before, in a frenzy to find fast cash, I answered a craigslist ad to be a bodypainted server/model at giant a masquerade Halloween warehouse party. I had sent them my picture because I thought it would be somewhat funny, and they were offering $1000 for one night of “work” which, let’s be honest, I’ve kind of done for free on multiple occasions. I’d be kidding myself to think I was above it, right?
By now they’d gotten back to me, “they” being this dude’s assistant (the guy owns a hotel or something and has had some small hollywood roles). They asked me to come by for an interview, which I had scheduled right after my interview at the hair salon (it ended up working out great because I wore a slutty black dress for “versatility” and it may have been the only reason I got the job at the salon. My boss is a straight man). The interview consisted of me waiting around for 20 minutes and then going up to the empty penthouse of this dude’s hotel and talking to him for five minutes about the size of my breasts and my level of comfort with toplessness. I thought it so was bizarre at the time, sitting on the patio of the 11th floor with the Empire State Building looming behind me and interviewing to be a go-go dancer. But I thought, “there’s a first time for everything” and “yolo” and “$$$$” and “who cares?” The man offered me drinks and food about 50 times to my decline. He told me about the different positions, one as a cocktail waitress that gets paid $500, and one as a “party masseuse,” which is a girl that walks around the party body-painted (with panties on!) and massaging people on ecstasy. Those are the girls that get paid $1000. That’s the one I said I wanted.
“We’re going to need a few photos of you,” he said. He meant topless photos. I gave him a nervous look at first and then shrugged. “I understand if you’re not comfortable,” he said. “But don’t worry, these pictures aren’t going anywhere. I have thousands of naked pictures on my laptop.” “So do I,” I said. What’s another person with a topless photo of me at this point? He departed and went downstairs, leaving me in the room with his assistant. She told me to strip down to my underwear, which was just a thong. I took my dress off while she checked her blackberry. Then, on the back of my application she wrote the number 27 in permanent marker. 27, my same number from the Miss National Pre-teen of North Carolina pageant I did when I was 11, where I won first place in sportswear modeling but fifth overall due to my “age inappropriate” glamour shot photos (I sat in fake sand with my legs open. I was wearing makeup and knee length shorts. I was 10. It shocked the southern masses). Having been made to feel like a slut for the last 12 years of my life, damned if I’m ever going to be ashamed of my body at this point. I held my number and did a series of poses for the assistant, slipped my dress back on and skipped out.
Now it was the “callback,” and I went back to the hotel to find the other girls, none of whom looked older than 19, waiting nervously by the elevator. I immediately became Stripper Mommy and tried to engage everyone in conversation to pump them up. “I heard there’s going to be an open bar!” It sort of worked. I made friends with a girl from the Philippines who didn’t speak much English which seems to be a running trend lately. Slowly more and more girls arrived, and before I knew it at least 100 of us were standing in a line, signing waivers and being forced to give up our cell phones. Here we go. Once we got up to the penthouse we were all supposed to take off everything but our thongs to be bodypainted. All the girls were fun and hilarious, and most of them were comfortable with the idea. We undressed on the patio and went back to the main room where there was a DJ and the open bar I had hoped for. There were only four bodypainters and about a million of us, so for the first hour everyone was just standing around semi-awkwardly, chugging champagne and looking at each other’s tits. I was making jokes left and right and befriending this baby hippie who was telling me about her latest dubstep festival. I couldn’t stop laughing and staring at everything. It was the weirdest thing I had ever seen, by far. Sponsors from somewhere were walking around scouting who they wanted to represent their brands at the party. The owner of the hotel was walking around with his two tiny dogs and all white ensemble as if he does this every week, which he might. Photographers were snapping photos and one woman was making a video of the charade. A funky girl that looked like a thuggish Tila Tequila was getting a ravey blue Tarzan tanktop painted onto her perfect body by this sexy new-age black man with gauges. I never once saw the bottom of my glass.
As the girls and myself started getting drunker and drunker I started having more fun. I was surrounded by 100 friendly, super confident babes that loved their bodies. This never happens, and it was not what I had expected at all. The DJ was playing all the songs drunk girls love, from “Ur Luv is My Drug” to “Call Me Maybe.” Before I knew it all the ratchet girls had formed a giant krump circle, their asses never more than 6 inches off the ground at any given time. When “Single Ladies” came on, Baby Dubstep Hippie shocked everyone by jumping in the circle and doing the entire choreo start to finish. I have never seen a room full of women this excited in my life.
Finally I got painted, a bikini top in the shape of apples even though I never liked red on me much. We took group photos and I smoked cigarettes while looking around cautiously as the owner started taking girls aside to chat with them privately. “I’m not here to be anybody’s girlfriend,” I thought, and said, multiple times that night. I put my name on the list for the highest paying position and left. It was midnight on a Thursday and my friends were in town…hello…I’m going out.
Before I left I took a picture of my apple tits and instagrammed it. I won’t post the picture here. I like that it’s ungooglable for now and it’s a great reason for you to follow me @catdookie.
When I left the hotel I went to meet Bradford, Moe, Emma and Lamonday who were out for CMJ. I am lazy and bad at finding stuff like this to do because I don’t care enough, but when Moe’s in town I am always on the list for something. Tonight it was the Spin party, with AraabMuzik, Chromeo and MNDR, which, whatever. There was another open bar, which always earns points, and the douchey crowd made it easy for me to skip the line for the bathroom by showing them my apples. I won’t say this was a low point for me, because I’ve been really low before. It certainly wasn’t the best party either, but I was having a good time. Just your average night, I suppose. Just to give you an idea of how thrilled I was by the atmosphere of this event. They were handing out promotional trucker hats made of paper. Obviously I ended up having some fun that night. The next day Hotel Dude’s assistant called me and told me I had to come for my second callback that night if I wanted the job. She told me the other girls and I would meet Dude at the hotel bar at 10 and then go to “the loft space,” which I thought meant the eventual location of the party. I said yes even though I had work the next morning at 9:30, because it sounded like this was “my only chance” and she said it would only take until 1 am. When I showed up at the hotel there was only one other girl waiting, an adorable Brooklyn native that barely grazed 5 ft. Dude was overseeing a nightclub act and had his bartender serve us unlimited beverages. I told myself I’d only have a few drinks, but we were waiting for a while and the drinks kept coming one after the other. The girl and I talked about our brothers and she showed me pictures on her blackberry of the food she’d eaten recently. I asked her how she found out about this job and what she thought the “second audition” was going to be like. She wasn’t sure, and we both started feeling a little off about the whole thing. Where were the other girls? Why were they taking us to a second location? Where even was this second location? We established our limits (no bottomless, no touching) and decided to ask Dude to his face what he had planned for us. He very candidly explained that the “audition” would consist of us going to go to his apartment, getting naked, and “massaging” him. Girl and I looked at each other. I’m no hooker, and if I was do you REALLY think I’d work for free? Heeeeeell nah. We walked.
I felt a little sordid for what was really the first time in this whole process. Partly because I was out 1000 bucks and the whole world had already pretty much seen me naked. But mostly because I was bummed that what I had approached as a fun, sexually freeing experience rejecting the stigma of nudity had ultimately turned into the run-of-the-mill exploitation anyone else would have assumed. I got free drinks out of it and had a lot of fun, so I don’t feel like I lost much. Hey, I’ll try almost anything once, but I drawing the line at prostitution. And, like, crystal meth.
“Come with me,” the girl said as she grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the hotel lounge. “I know some people.” Before I knew it, it was the hour I’d planned to go home and I was walking clear across town with a girl I’d just met to a club I’d just heard of for the first time. Maybe you know of Club Amnesia. It’s like the Pacha of hip hop, I guess, although I’ve obviously never been to Pacha. We get to the door at the front of a line that wraps around the block. My tiny friend gives the doorman a kiss on the cheek and we cross the velvet rope. Girl is actually Latina, but I could feel the piercing group side-eye at what must have looked like two little white girls cutting in line. “Miguel is supposed to be here tonight,” she says to me while the security guards search through our bags. I’m already wasted at this point, wide eyed and freaked out as a man twice my size metal detects between my legs. My new best friend told me we were only drinking Hennessey and cranberry that night, and I was happy to oblige as I was not yet used to getting paid every week and temporarily thought I was rich. Because I’m a complete idiot I offered to buy the drinks. She gave me some money for tip, but I ended up spending $80 on four drinks. I was having fun for a few minutes, maybe even hours, and then everything went sour. I realized I had work in 6 hours at my brand new job and I was wasted and getting dry-raped in this intense-ass club. I think I tried to make out with Girl which was a no-go. Miguel very well could have been performing and I would not have realized. I was gone. I waved goodbye to my friend and darted out the front door, towards the street and into the back of a cab.
The thing is, when you catch a cab in Manhattan and tell them you live in Bushwick you ALWAYS need to be giving specific directions to the driver. CASE IN POINT my ass was so drunk that night I told homie to take the Williamsburg bridge, rattled off some cross streets and pretty much lost consciousness until I was in a part of Brooklyn I had never ever seen before and the driver was yelling at me to get out. Next thing I knew I was crying on a street corner at 4 am, drunk and exhausted, hooded strangers walking right by me without a glance. When I first moved to New York I thought it was only a “certain class of people” that you’d find rambling to themselves in a ball on the sidewalk. I quickly realized everyone that lives here takes turns playing the part of the destitute and clinically insane. That night it was me, and not for the first or last time.
The night ended with a kind stranger driving by and offering me a ride, the sort of thing any intelligent or non-desperate person would have turned down. But at this point I would have accepted anything, and having gained a little more control over my senses I was able to direct him to my apartment using the map on my phone. I was no less than a 15 minute drive away. He dropped me off and I thanked him sincerely without ever getting his name.
That night I slept for 3 hours before getting up for work, where I was to spill an entire large coffee all over myself and get called out by a coworker for smelling like alcohol. Luckily at the salon we just spritz each other with perfume and go about our day like nothing is wrong even when it really, really is.
The next week was Halloween Friday, the first in what was to be several consecutive celebrations of the same holiday. After work, Hannah and I went to Ricky’s to snag some children’s costumes and fake blood for our half-baked zombie hospital theme: “We’ll be the surgeons and Winston can be our escaped patient! We obviously need cleavers.” If you have “the body” for it, I highly HIGHLY suggest buying children’s costumes for your next Halloween extravaganza. They are usually pretty expandable, if the arms and legs are a little short, and you save like 50 bucks. I dressed my brother in our Great Grandmother’s old nightgown which I may or may not have ruined with fake blood that may or may not be machine washable. All in all I think we came out great. That night we met up with two aliens, a dead fox and Tony and went to one of the infamous Bushwick mansion parties. I don’t remember much besides Tony spending 20 minutes pouring Joose into my face and getting chased for trying to steal the lightup statue.
And then Sandy happened. I don’t pay attention to the weather ever, but my parents started frantically texting me something the media dramatically named a “FRANKENSTORM.” I rolled my eyes at the phone all like, “Remember the Derecho last July? When everyone freaked out and the only thing that happened was a few cool instagrams of clouds? We’re gonna be fine.” Just in case, I bought some rad candles and an ample supply of Cap’n Crunch. Natural disasters are about sharing! Sharing cereal with your cat, or a bottle of Jim Beam with that guy you always wanted to sleep with, or you know, electricity and hot water with your friends from Lower Manhattan.
So I was kind of wrong, but not quite. Much of New York, as you know, was super fucked by Sandy. But my neighborhood, being as far inland in Brooklyn as physically poss, was largely unaffected. The worst that happened to Bushwick was that the trains were shut down for like a week, and all the white kids with internships and retail jobs in Manhattan had to celebrate Halloween together five fucking days in a row.
That Tuesday I went to Tandem, probably my favorite bar in Bushwick as it is mostly queer and generally pretty dancey and fun. I wore a pair of fairy wings and did that thing I always do where I get drunk and come out as a full-on lesbian. The jury will always be out on my sexuality, though, as it fucking should be. Unsurprisingly, I saw a Sarah Cousler imposter. If you look hard enough you can find them in every cool city in the country, maybe even the world. They try their best, but they will never be quite as good. By the time actual Halloween rolled around, I was almost completely over it. Almost. I sent this picture to all my best friends as a kind of holiday ecard.
Instead of going out again, I smoked two joints with Hannah and Winston and made them watch This Is It with me while I cried.
Tell me you can watch this with dry eyes.
That weekend we went back to the mansion and I spent most of the night doing mutual manual with some dude in the closet while trying not to vomit on him.
Someone at the party gave me this mixtape, pretty much making all the weirdness worthwhile.
When October FINALLY ended, election day was upon us. A few days earlier I had mailed my absentee ballot into North Carolina like a GOOD CITIZEN. The state went red but I still felt actualized enough by the outcome of the election, and the fact that I got to take this instagram
On the night of the election I watched the returns at Winston’s with two forties of Ballantine and a box of off brand mac and cheese. As soon as Ohio went blue I was sucked into a vortex of mania that led me to watching the Crazytown “Butterfly” video 3 times, convincing everyone to huff dishwasher detergent and I think eating a little bit of old spice. I helped pick your president!!!
Since then I’ve been living the broke life as usual and trying to get used to New York’s schizophrenic weather patterns. HURRICANE! SNOW! 65 AND SUNNY! I’ve been buying lots of clothes and household items I can’t afford. I’ve been staying out a lot and working a lot, all while planning my upcoming celebrations of DANKSGIVING and XXXMAS. Every week is another fucking holiday. With my personality and New York’s relentlessness, I’ll be lucky if I ever get the chance to have a normal life.
It was well into the evening on Monday when I finally set foot outside, confronting the strangeness of waking up after sleeping for 24 hours; after spending the twelve hours before that squeezing every last drop of serotonin from my brain; after spouting every last detail of my life story to a group of attentive, similarly altered listeners; after drink after drink after drink….
Everything seemed completely brand new, and not in the best of ways. Patrick had left the city the previous day while I was wallowing in my wreck of a room trying to invent a home remedy for insomnia. I didn’t know if it was the fact that summer had started to slip away, but the air smelled completely different. It smelled kinda like…fucks.
Oh, blah blah blah. We’ve all been here before, right? In that place where the party lasted too long (or ended too soon), the period of recovery has long outstayed its welcome and you’re still sitting there, a self-indulgent lame duck. But this, sans tea or shade, isn’t “Amphetamine Logic.” I don’t find these feelings remotely glamorous. I see no reason to give in to the bullshit of ~taking life seriously~, mistaking the emotional repercussions of a long night for some epiphany on the ultimate truth of loneliness and failure. Ya just did too much drugs.
The thoughts of a fucked up person always sound so true and interesting because they’re always face to face with their mortality. Or maybe they think they are? Something about a death instinct and weakening life instincts which you can read about in superstar drug blogger Cat Marnell’s articles here, or here, or everywhere.
BUT if you, like me, have the luxury of not being a total addict and just want to have some fun, try to remember you ARE NOT GOING TO DIE AND/OR FAIL AT LIFE AND/OR WASTE AWAY WITH NO TRUE FRIENDS THAT REALLY GET U
You are young, you are not dead, everything is going to be fine.
Here are all the things you need to successfully cure a really shitty comedown.
Water: You forget you need this, but you do. Like, really do. Imagine running a marathon and then guzzling a big ole jug of ocean water. That’s what partying does to your body. You might not feel like it and it might really suck but it’s AMAZING what throwing back three or four tall glasses of water can do to your morale. Helpful tip, if you have a headache or stomachache or just don’t feel thirsty, water at room temperature is a lot easier to drink than the cold stuff. Camelbacks are also good because by this time you will have regressed to a child-like state and won’t mind sucking a nipple.
Vitamins: There’s this crazy shit you can buy at the drug store called 5HTP that helps replenish some of the great stuff that great drugs suck out of your brain and body (like our beloved serotonin). It also makes you sleepy, which is going to be really helpful in your shitty state. But without getting into a bunch of science or whatever, there are other super normal things you can take like vitamin C and B complex (I actually read somewhere that if you take B12 the night you go out drinking it keeps you from having a hangover. But I’m not a doctor or anything). I have been known to take like 4 packs of Emergen-C which has a whole bunch of different shit in it and is also a good way to convince myself to drink water.
Marijuana: I don’t remember the last time I bought weed which is totally shameful. I actually spent most of the summer so un-stoned that I’d forgotten how great of a remedy it can be for most things.
Sleep: You will not feel normal again until you do this. In my case I had to take a promethazine and do it for about a day. Actually I’ve come to realize that most of my problems, party-related or not, have to do with being tired. Tiredness just makes you so annoyingly serious and who has time for that?
Get OUT of the house: Go for a walk. Get your blood flowing. Maybe even get some food. See something other than the room where up until five minutes ago you were sure you were going to die.
Exercise, even if slightly: Stretching is a good way to cheat on this one. Stretching is the bomb.
Socialize: This one is about getting over yourself and realizing your problems are not that serious. Having a chat with someone other than your cat will make you feel less crazy and help you gain perspective. You’ll remember who you used to be before this nightmare.
and last but not least, Create limits for yourself: You need to know when enough is enough (in my experience this is somewhere between slightly more than enough and not quite too much). Nobody wants to come visit you in a hospital or look at your broken capillaries or have you ruin everything by dying. Let’s not lose any more good people. Things you will never see me do include crack, heroin, meth, and PCP (sorry Cat, u do u). I am also not super “into pills” or what have you because that just seems so ’08, and you should NEVER exchange sex for drugs (or vice versa, you creep). I’m not going to wag my finger at you if you flirt with guys so they buy you drinks. Who doesn’t do that? (Well, I don’t usually because I have a very narrow, almost invisible window between wanting to stab a guy in the face and actually liking them. By the time I figure out which one, the ‘pretending’ ship has sailed far, far away). I’m JUST saying that if you want your morning-afters to get any easier, think about the things you felt guilty about last time. Maybe you feel like an idiot for letting that guy suck your tit in exchange for a bump of coke because you were kind of being a huge idiot. But don’t be too hard on yourself. Some things, like bouncing around scantily clad and talking incessant nonsense to a group of ogling guys for four hours, should be met with a quick self deprecating eye-roll. If you do find yourself sitting around biting your nails trying to remember all the ridiculous things you said and thinking “they probably thought I was so stupid and selfish and slutty!” just remember that,
-If they did, so what?
-They were really fucked up too and probably more focused on trying to sleep with you.
You know, sometimes I think I don’t want to blog, ’cause I’m all like “man, this is so hard and difficult and complicated.” There’s some jpegs and basic html involved. I have to type with my outgrown manicure which has barely gotten easier over time. I have to hit “save draft” regularly so I don’t lose my “work.” It’s basically exercise.
I think I’m just feeling stressed because something is wrong with my kidney again (last time this happened I went to the hospital and vomited all over an old woman in the waiting room, lol), and because I’m coming down with some kind of weird summer cold, AND because…this past weekend was rly hella stu.
It actually started two weekends ago with a really fun but really destructive set of events involving Brenmar at 285 Kent where I stayed up until 6 throwing shade at Williamsburg only to wake up there bleary eyed and pants-less the next day; Machinedrum at some random warehouse that I walked to alone in like .3 of an item of clothing, something I’m starting to get really used to; and a day at the beach with 7 boys, 2 blunts and 1 warm bottle of Bacardi. I spent all day Monday in bed detoxing, and by Tuesday night we were back out again for Le1f’s show at Westgay. Patrick flirted with some dudes wearing blazers (???) to get free drinks and pass them off to me, so that I could prance around drunkenly and see if any of my new NY friends remembered my name.
(officially only wearing bras as tops from now on. also it’s really hard to take a picture of your own outfit. fuck it)
The next night we chugged Four Lokos and did finger dips with the rats in Washington Square Park before ghe20 g0th1k. I started a tab at the bar and spent 40 dollars of my rent money on double gin and tonics when I was already wasted! I flirted with every girl I saw and was met with pure, unadulterated shade from every one! I met Solange Knowles who, non-plussed and dipped in salt, was there for reasons neither she nor I understood. I WAS LIVING THE FAB LIFE. NO ONE COULD STOP ME.
(how do you guys feel about all the gpoys? are you sick of me yet? hope so.)
And then the weekend happened. We kicked it off with Aaron’s birthday celebration where, Peach Four Loko in hand, I was prepared to have the time of my life. By the time the can was empty I had successfully become inappropriate and obnoxious, just in time for 12 cops to ransack the place, arrest two of my friends and give everyone trespassing tickets for being on the roof next door.
(here i am in a state of shock after my friends got arrested and i had to wander home wasted rapping Fabolous to myself)
(here i am posing with my trespassing ticket and Da Diva Miss Gonny. the tissue is because i have tuberculosis. you may recognize my BRITNEY: TOXIC shirt from last year’s mugshot.)
After spending the next morning in a typhoon of my own alcoholism-induced drama all I wanted to do was…get drunk again. I woke myself up at 11:30 to go to the Bushwick Block Party down the street from my house and waited in line alone in the rain to get free pizza. I was super bummed out in the wake of the previous night and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to eat my feelings. When that was done and I took another nap, I pulled my unshowered ass into my Slutty Miami Bridesmaid strapless dress and pulled my trampy, greasy hair back with as little effort as possible. After all, I was going to Hotel Chantelle, a place I have already come to abhor with a passion in just my two months here. But invited by my new friend James (who has to be one of the only attractive regulars at HC) with the promise of vodka and whiskey, I figured I might as well pop in to pregame. To call it the mistake of the century would be a gross understatement.
(i’m just trying to be quietly fabulous and listen to 80s music without killing anyone. why you gotta go and fuck that up?)
Moe and I were casually waiting for the bathroom when some guy I’ve never seen comes OUT of the restroom, accuses us of cutting the line and refuses to let me pee. In a grand gesture of misogynistic vigilantism, he bars the door and starts calling me a bitch and a cunt on repeat for about five minutes. Naturally, my response was to say “? DA FUCK?” and promptly poured my drink on him. Before I knew what happened, the dude had taken his glass and slammed it into the side of my face, leaving what is now a small gash and a swollen jaw. I got punched by a dude that looked like Alexis Mateo from Ru Paul out of drag wearing an Affliction T-Shirt and a FUCKING VEST. Are you kidding me? I was so in shock that rather than beating the mother fucking shit out of his ass, I just stood there holding my face laughing and crying. Clearly at that point my friends had no choice but to take me to the nearest Popeye’s for some soul food. I served one last hair flip and ate my feelings for the second time in a day. I’m not sure if the cut on my chin or the cole slaw hurt worse the next morning.
(luckily i wasn’t too butthurt to instagram my wounds. I would have fought back, really, but my new year’s resolution was to stop head-butting people in the face.)
On Sunday, Reid, who didn’t have the best weekend himself, had the brilliant idea to go get tattoos and bar food as therapy. Since, as you know, I hate to struggle with meaning, I also hate tattoos that have stupid emotional stories behind them. So I got the thing that felt most relevant to my life, ate a plate of potato skins and called it a week.
And that, my good friends, is all I can really say.
(THIS is what true beauty, and having no idea what to do with your mouth in a photo, looks like up close)
Okay, so I haven’t posted in three fucking weeks. That’s a lot. Maybe you’re wondering where I’ve been lately, or maybe you’re wondering why I keep talking about what I do with my life to the internet like the internet cares. If the latter is the case, move along, sport. For the rest of you, let’s go through this together, shall we?
The last few weeks were actually a bit stressful for me as I searched for a July sublet and a permanent apartment (I found both!), moved all my shit from Greenpoint to Bushwick by myself (sure, my stronger-than-wonderwoman-determined-as-fuck self, but still, my one-person-with-eight-70lb-suitcases-living-in-a-fourth-floor-walkup self. Yeah I don’t know why I have so much stuff, either), and then brought one of my tiny baby kittens, GONNY, up from North Carolina in an airplane carryon. Oh, and during all of this I was finding an apartment for my brother and his girlfriend who are moving up in two weeks, going to my internship three days a week and kind of, you know, looking for a paying job since my whack-ass savings account is nearly bone dry.
look at all this shit…ew
CUE NOT-SO-CLEVER TINIEST OF TINY VIOLIN JOKES
whatever. The point is that for the last couple of days I’ve been a total pussy, hanging out in my apartment nursing my kitten out of her crippling anxiety, watching Charlie Kaufman films and reading Murakami (I know right). I’ve only been out TWICE in the past week, which is sort of unheard of. I even went on a run today just for an excuse to hop around the city half-naked. I’m so over this shit.
Now that I’ve spent a couple of days writing in my journal (derrr) and proving to myself that I can “struggle with meaning” just like every other sad sack with a conscience, allow me to remind the world that I am STILL the second hardest-partying free human in North America (the first is Andrew WK. the rest are dead or in jail. Oh, I finally payed off my lawyer this week!) Anyway–
Weeks on weeks on weeks ago before I moved to Bushwick I was “between homes” as you all know. During that time I was staying with Patrick in the closet he calls his apartment (I said no SHADE, Patrick) and living out of a backpack. We did even more of everything together than usual that week. There was Verboten with Art Department where he, moe and I each sold our pinky toes for ‘reduced’ entry and party favors. It was a complete mess. You know when you go to an all-night dance party broke as fuck and so desperate to find a good time that when it finally happens, you slightly overdo it and drag yourself home from some warehouse at 9am? It was one of those. Needless to say there are no pictures of the after party. If someone had tried to snap single photo anywhere near me at that point, I would not have hesitated to give them a purple nurple. That’s right, don’t fuck with me when I’m on drugs.
We each traded a quart of sweat at the nearest burger king for this beverage. 1 part diet coke, 1 part regular coke, 2 parts $5 bacardi gold.
After I’d worn all the clothes in my knapsack I started hand-washing them in Patrick’s shower and drying them like this.
Since we’re poor we pretty much subsist on cheap liquor and stolen groceries alone, while weaseling our way onto the guest list of whatever’s going on that night. I don’t know man, maybe it’s a sad lifestyle but it’s the only life I kno.
How anyone in the world can be sad when this exists I will never understand.
Here’s me losing my dumb idiot mind all over the couch during the Tokimonsta show at Glasslands. I think Patrick should get a tattoo on that part of his arm. But das just me personally.
Uh, here I am trying to do my makeup on the subway after sweating off a pair of cheap fake eyelashes and three layers of skin on the platform. Although you really cannot tell, it actually turned out alright. I got asked for my number by a STRAIGHT GUY that night, so you know it’s real.
Fourth of July week was the week I officially moved, so I punctuated all the huffing and puffing and sweating and bitching with a few open bars, a few kikis, some outdoor drinking and a little bit of listening to fireworks alone in my shower. I really don’t even remember what we actually did. I vaguely recall leaving the house at 1 am each night and being deeply disappointed by where I ended up. That’s what I get, I guess.
Trying my absolute hardest to channel Iggy Azalea with my tiny anorexic ponytail. I’m WORKING on it, fuck…
Probably one of the cutest lil things I’ve done this summer is ride the Staten Island Ferry with Skye. I didn’t realize you could actually drink BEER while riding it back and forth aimlessly and laughing about how stupid the Statue of Liberty is. What a treat.
I’m not nearly cute or sweet enough to be seen with him
One out of 3-ish billion instagrams of this exact same picture that week. America n shit n fuck.
Nature!!
One of the things we like to do when we run out of ideas, which has happened a LOT this month, is drink 40s of Olde English (I wish I were kidding) and go to shitty gay bars in Brooklyn where we can dance to playlists from 2007 and rub elbows with F-list off-duty drag queens. I honestly don’t really mind because the beers are two dollars and I get a lot of people coming up to me saying “oh my GOD, you are SO channeling KESHA right now!” Though I could do without the part where they touch my hair. Even the people who are closest to me in the entire world, including my literal mother, know that I turn into a rabid dog when hands go near the hair. ”BACK THE FUCK UP OFF THE CURLS, ASSHOLE.” oh PS I’m single!
Here I am with Gay Snooki at The Metropolitan. I forget his real name. Mostly I was just excited to take another picture of myself.
The last thing I did before I took the megabus down to NC was the VICE Dos and Don’ts party at Powerhouse Arena. I love VICE juuuust about as much as your stereotyping ass would assume, and I wanted to drink vodka and weird beer at 7pm around cool people I don’t know, some people I know and don’t like, and those one or two people in between. Fucking sue me. When I was there I ran into two of my editors from work.
“Oh my god! Our intern is here! What are you doing here? Who do you know at VICE?”
“Umm…no one? Umm…everyone? I don’t know man, I kind of just do what I want.”
Uber trending/badass/borderline-psychopathic writers Cat Marnell and The Fat Jew were in charge of giving everyone slightly or straight-up overtly offensive name tags at the door, as a way for people with no interest in knowing each other to converse via smirks. The point is, Cat Marnell touched my tit. Lucky her, right?
Seriously, why give a fuck when you can just stand around and be all like “bleearh?”
Cool pic of my boobs having more fun than me. dunno why that always happens.
Fine, okay, whatever, shut up
Race was a hot topic at this event because VICE is all about controversy! But it pretty much mortified Patrick. Touche, Fat Jew.
UM, SO finally, the next day I went to Ralz and after buying my brother birthday tequila shots at dinner met up with Sass, Justin, Katy, Jeff and like 11 other fab gay dudes with rainbow colored hair. There was a 90s party at King’s that night which obviously meant we all had to dress like Zenon on mescaline, and I had to spend the rest of the weekend lying on the floor of my dad’s house trying to keep my head from falling off. After all that–and dragging a crying cat onto a 3-hour flight back up to New York–I needed a fucking break. Gonny kept me up until 9 am the night we got back with a disturbing, xanax-induced guttural rawr, and I’ve pretty much been sleeping ever since.
Now that I’ve risen from my coma, ~my body is ready~ for the next round of dumbassery. Stay tuned for more regular posts (less about parties and more on important things like bikini waxes and twitter cat-fights. Maybe I’ll write about the election! You don’t know!) PLUS a series of Sass’ scandalous photos from my crazy night down south. Spoiler alert: I look like a drunk hoe.
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?
