THE FAB DISASTER

just a hot mess trying to make it in the city


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MY BODY IS READY

(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.

Enjoy your night.


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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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