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


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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