Hey, Could I Bum a House?

So today’s post is going to be outlined by a series of photographs. This is for all my illiterate hoes who need not be discounted, and for those of you who really want to get the full experience of last week’s nonsense. Just to give you a little backstory, I’m living in this weird/adorable nest/treehouse thing in northern Greenpoint right now (you can see photos on my flickr, or on that tab up there that says ‘photos’), but sometime in the next 24 hours my ‘sublessor’ (yeah, I’m a lawyer) is returning home which will effectively put me out on the street. For the purposes of earning street cred this will actually be very fulfilling for me, as I’ve always wanted to roam around the city with nothing but a backpack and an ipod nano (which I am inexplicably still carrying around despite having an iphone…probably my need to maintain a “quirky” and somewhat “ignorant” relationship with technology) and sleeping on the couches of cranky gay men everywhere.

“I COOK! I CLEAN! I TAKE CARE OF YOUR MOTHER!”

I’ll be refilling those six suitcases I was telling you about for the rest of the night. Meanwhile my shit is EVERYWHERE and I figured I’d use some of it to help me finish the story of How Much Fun I Had That First Month in New York Before I Was Just Some Homeless Crackhead With an Internship.

(as you can see i am super organized and i give all the fucks in the world)

(some fucking plastic ass tupperware shit wrapped in a repurposed piece of garbage)

One of the first things you learn as a broke idiot in any city is that sometimes you’ve got to suck it up and bring your lunch from home.  Spending 10 dollars every day on a lox and cream cheese bagel (or 12 dollars on some Chipotle that’ll make you shit your pants) quickly becomes a luxury that you can only dream of one day affording and meanwhile those mashed potatoes and, like, scrambled eggs leftover from last night are starting looking gourmet as fuck. I realized I can spend $20 every couple of weeks at Trader Joe’s buying the bare minimum of produce and essential nutrients (a la beans and rice) and as long as I make it home at least once a day (a thing that has become increasingly rare) I don’t have to worry about throwing hella bills at a sack of trans fats just to survive. Sometimes you have to get creative. I literally just made a bowl of tuna, vegenaise, chick peas and paprika and ate it with pita bread (perhaps you think this is a low point but it was pretty damn delicious). Sadly, I haven’t been making it back to Greenpoint as much as I like, which explains why I’ve been shoplifting so much on the Upper West Side. You have to save money wherever you can, because you know as well as I do that as soon as the first cent drops in your bank account you’ll be ordering 40s of Ballantine and a personal large pizza to your room without batting an eye. Shit is costly, bruh.

(homeless women and men should always have the proper accoutrement for doin’ it on their person)

At this point you all know that I am very open about my sex life. For a second I considered that showing my ACTUAL BIRTH CONTROL PACKET (gasp!) on the internet was a little much. Then I remembered that at least 6 of my best friends growing up have pictures of their chunky newborns all over their facebook pages. I can do whatever the fuck I want. NOW, if you don’t want to have a baby–a perfectly respectable life choice for people of any age–it’s super important to keep your birth control at arm’s reach 100% of the time. Missing pills can not only get you pregnant, but it can make you have your period for an entire month (which can really ruin the reason you’re taking them in the first place, am I right?). Maybe taking my pill with a sip of lemon Four Loko outside of a bodega at 11 pm is not a good look, but if you can breast-feed in public (something I think is totally okay), I can make sure I don’t have some dude’s raggedy ass kid before I go to the club. This is what they mean by “drink responsibly,” right? And as for the condoms, you don’t have to explain to me your reason for not using them. Oh believe me, I get it…they’re a fucking pain in the ass. And if you’re getting regularly tested and you trust your partner, that’s a choice you fully have the right to make. I’m just saying–I’ve never had the Gonz but I hear it’s kinda gross. And I’m trying real hard to remember that.

(there is more bacteria on this dollar than around the rim of my toilet seat, I guarantee it.)

Oh look! A dollar! Like, a pretty substantial portion of my total savings (more than I care to admit)! The problem is, when I woke up and found this on the floor next to my bed I was kind of afraid to touch it. One low-key evening after drinking a bottle of Welch’s grape juice disguised as red wine, Reid, my new friend Kate and I went to The Woods for some shots. I still don’t really know how I feel about this place considering everyone is like 99% wack and the bathrooms are modeled after the waterboarding rooms in Guantanamo Bay. One time, though, I found a pair of awesome leather gloves on the sidewalk outside of the bar and I keep thinking I might find some more free stuff every time I go. Also anywhere that has a hut that sells grilled cheeses a stone’s throw from the dance floor is worth a look or two. This particular night, though, not one of the gangly losers in snapbacks was running to buy me a grilled cheese. Once it started pouring rain, the whole place turned into a sodden, rancid hellhole I couldn’t escape despite (or perhaps due to) the barrel of tequila I’d consumed. I can’t say I had a horrible time. The music was pretty good (Azealia Banks is the DJing equivalent of a free space at this point), and right before I left I found a dollar on the ground! This dollar. This dollar that I am now afraid to touch because it is actually covered in beer and mud and toilet water and probably poop. I don’t know exactly what my plan is for this guy, but don’t be surprised if later tonight I am literally…actually…washing a dollar in the fucking sink.

(some kind of playing card for a game i’m assuming is both very fun and kind of a waste of time–just smoke the shit, you know?)

I don’t know how this got in my purse. I believe I found it in the studio behind Reid’s apartment where, I kid you not, we pregamed for Anorexxxtapussy by chasing swigs of Patrick’s Georgi with my Four Loko. “Just put a little loko in the back of your throat and you can’t even taste it!” This night is a complete fucking blur. Once we arrived at sugar hill it was as if everyone was really distracted by something…but nothing was really happening. I think this is what it’s like to be completely wasted in a room full of strangers. Here are some pictures from that night.

(they call me lana del razorblades)

(reid is super into jezus)

(patrick giving his best gothic, but really he just looks like my uncle danny in the late 90s after he just took out the speedboat)

(N STUF///N STUF///I’M A FUCKIN ARTIST SO STFU///)

(get in the car. and don’t touch nothin’ SIT IN THE CAR)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(you really can’t let yourself be stinkin’)

I hate to say this is true, but for a good two…maybe three days after Anorexxxtapussy or whatever it’s called, I was wearing variations of the same outfit and trying not to smell like Bigfoot’s dead grandma in weather that was quickly approaching 100 degrees. During this time I decided to get really into “pajama goth,” which mostly just meant loose layers of fishnet, chiffon, and Rick Owens tanks I borrowed from Skye. This allowed me to move freely and comfortably while not really sweating all that much, but it’s nice to touch up yo face when you get a chance. You really never know when you might meet someone cute and idk, maybe they will be super into the “swamp thing” look, but I like to be prepared just in case.

You can plan all you want to take your chiffon out to new and exciting places, but you might just end up at the Standard anyway. That’s what happened last Sunday. Somehow our intoxication snowballed extra quickly that night. I really don’t know how things get so ratchet so fast.

(here is moe defying gravity. a clear resemblance to some acrobatics i pulled back in nc, pictured below)

(I have a college degree, btw)

(have you ever seen anything so beautiful in your entire life?)

(i am not actually peeing in this picture. some asshole threw a water balloon at me and knocked my pants down. what an asshole.)

(this is how you know you’ve had a good night)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(free shit from The View that i have yet to actually sample)

Believe it or not, about 6 hours after snapping that sad picture of Patrick on the toilet, I accompanied him to fill our free seats at The View (we have friends and family in relatively high places and that’s all I can say). The special guest was Jimmy Fallon which is why we got all these free goodies. All in all this experience was surreal and bizarre as fuck. My palms kept sweating a lot because I was thrown by being in the same room as Whoopi Goldberg, and also because I was about to drop dead from the after-effects of last night’s bottle service. This made it somewhat awkward for me when I ended up shaking her hand. Actually, the whole experience was about 50/50 awkward and totally rad.

(just chillin with some fellow viewers)

Other than all of this, the past week has been spent trying to find a place for me and my cute kittens to live. I’m doing reasonably well staying positive even though sometimes it’s hard not to have a tantrum when you’re on the J train at 9 am on a Saturday only to reach a roach motel that costs $800 a month. “HOW THE FUCK DO YOU EVEN SAY KOSCIUSZKO STREET” *screams through tears at a gentleman eating a churro who doesn’t speak a word of English*

I’ll keep you updated on what it’s like living on futons and eating popcorn for every meal. Right now I’m of the belief that you can totally be a fabulous, homeless badass. Let’s see how long this delusion lasts.

By the way, follow me on twitter @katstkat and on instagram @catdookie for constant updates. I promise I won’t depress you.


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“Omg! Welcome to New York!”

OOPS. SORRY EVERYONE. I’ve been so busy being fabulous and terrible and wonderful and stupid in my new city that I haven’t been keeping you updated with all the debauchery. But after spending the last three hours drinking those little Keurig coffee pods by Emeril Lagasse called “BIG EASY BOLD/BIG EASY INTENSE” and making a list of everything I can remember from the last ten or so days, I am ready to introduce you to my New York life~~~

The first few days that I spent in the city were with my doting mother, who offered to help me move six suitcases into my fourth-floor walk-up in Greenpoint out of the kindness of her southern heart (I will share pictures of this adorable treehouse with everyone in the near future). After bickering and shopping and watching lifetime movies in my mom’s hotel, I started the kickass internship where I work three days a week. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday from 10 am to 5 pm that magazine receives my undivided attention and effort. I love it. It’s the best. But what happens outside of those hours is a totally different story and, you know, is somewhat lacking in responsibility and professionalism.

When Patrick finally arrived in the city I had just finished dinner with my mother at Five Leaves and after worrying and panicing (unnecessarily) about her ability to navigate back to her hotel via subway, P and I walked to Williamsburg to do…something. Something we could afford that wasn’t a waste of time. So we started with what we knew best: buying forties and Four Lokos and stealthily drinking them on a street corner. I got turned away from the first bodega for sighing loudly at the cashier who refused to acknowledge my existence. Luckily there are 379 bodegas on that block of Metropolitan alone and I was holding a shitty fruit punch Four Loko in just about thirty seconds. He really taught me!

We thought about going to that skee ball place but for whatever reason we decided to just stand next to a dumpster across the street from it and drink while loudly talking shit. Seemed more appropriate. For those of you who don’t know, Fruit Punch is by far the worst flavor of Four Loko. Like, we’re talking Robitussin meets battery acid sprinkled with Comet bleach and lit on fire. I never exaggerate. Since the Year of the Loko in 2009 it has been my theory that drinking the poison is at least 80% mental, and that just holding the empty can is enough to send your mind into a frenzy of bliss and mental retardation. With that in mind, I alternated gulps with watering a small tree in front of an apartment building. I’m not sure what Four Loko does to trees, but I bet it took a huge dump the next morning.

Walking in circles around the neighborhood for a few hours was pretty boring, and dancing in front of intimidating beautiful lesbians carrying knives at the Metropolitan was not thrilling enough to keep us around, so we ended up venturing back to my place. On the way I made friends with this egg.

We awoke the next morning and promptly started tanning on my amazing roof, sans sunscreen or speakers or common sense. We consumed a twelve-pack of canned Rolling Rock (it was on SALE) between the two of us, and after texting our friend Bradford while he was hard at work at BET (maybe you’ve heard of it idk) I decided to put on my kewl new discount DKNY sandals and walk to Crif Dogs. By this time we were pretty zonked, our sunburns–and maybe the beer and marijuana–had lulled us into a lucid dream where munchies ruled over any other impulse. I got my veggie dog and made a replica of Mt. Rushmore out of tater tots, which made up for the blood pooling in the back of my shoes from my shitty awesome sandal straps.

(^this guy)

That night we stuck to another thing we knew best which was getting into Le Bain. Thursday nights are “ZigZag,” which to me appeared just like regular Le Bain with more naked people in the hot tub and a lot of early 00’s r&b. I met a cute asian chick who got us free vodka shots by making out with the bartender. She was later “dismissed” for collapsing on the velvet rope by the DJ booth via drunkenness. Sadly, I never got her name. I met a very nice French guy. We quickly found our way around the language barrier but that night I slept on the Upper West Side in Patrick’s bed.

Are you still following along? Great. Just checking.

So we arrive at Friday morning/afternoon and I go to meet my mother for lunch dressed like a hooker and smelling like chlorine, my tangled pink hair obscuring most of my face. It may have made a small scene and been NAGL for a lunch date with my mother in Greenwich Village but my mom ~understands me~ and I have never been known to miss a free meal. In fact, even after showering and changing into a hot outfit for the LE1F show at the Tribeca Grand with Reid, we ended up getting rained on and (almost) ruining our looks completely. I’m not going to tell you the brand of dress that I was wearing but it did look somewhat like this Herve Leger bandage dress. However, I did not look like a SIMS character.

That was the night I met my new friend Skye and got near-molested by some stranger who couldn’t open his eyes. I’d say I was striking a good balance so far.

It wasn’t until Saturday night that I started to realize how strange of a place NYC can be. Reid, Patrick and I ate dinner that day in the adorable Chelsea Market (brought to you by Pinterest) and ended up dining next to Ron Livingston. “Hey, isn’t that guy from a movie? That guy’s totally in something,” Reid announced. I then had to brief them all via text message about seasons 5 and 6 of Sex and the City and remind them of the movie Office Space, complete with quotes. I couldn’t actually see him because he was sitting behind a ficus or something. But I did watch him casually exit the restaurant with his equally sullen girlfriend or wife or agent or something. What a Berger.

My first roof party in Chelsea was up next, a BYOB event where we stood casually drinking cheap beer and listening to slightly older, much more gainfully employed gay men talking about where they’ve “summered.” We received a lot of side-eye because Reid and I were both dressed as pirates  (of course) until everyone got drunk enough to admit that they loved us and offer us free shit. After that we ended up at some bar in Chinatown that looked like a tiki hut with a Michelle Williams type go-go dancing under what may have been a fake/real/non-existent palm tree. I didn’t really know what was going on, and I knew even less after our 7-person cab ride to a a huge loft party in an undisclosed location filled with gaudy, fabulous ratchet partypeople with undisclosed identities. I vaguely remember swaying with Patrick against a giant wall with video projecting on my face. Needless to say we went to Ihop post-party and I did not wake up at home.

By Sunday it became very clear that the weekend was not going to end, and somehow I wasn’t running out of energy. We headed to a private party at the Standard that was filled with fabulous, amazing try-hards and some fabulous, amazing born-that-ways. You can smell the “care too much” on some people in this city, which is fine. At least they look good? In general the party was mostly glamorous which made it all the more appropriate to eat chips and hummus from my purse in the ballroom across from nightlife legend Sophia Lamar. Of course we received dirty looks from everyone else in the room but Sophia, who proceeded to rub icing from someone’s birthday cake on her lips like a gloss and wave at us from the other end of the couch. This night, like every night, was an oddly perfect cocktail of the near-embarrassment and all-around fabulousness that I have grown addicted to. Later, I attempted to sit on the couch, but the two leather units separated beneath me and I fell on my ass in front of everyone. The room went silent, so naturally I got up and did a few curtsies. Sophia the Badass mouthed to me “you broke the couch!” to which I responded, “THE COUCH BROKE ME.” I would have been mortified if I could muster a fuck.

After spending money we did’t have on a few gin and tonics, Patrick and I were picked up by our very own zazzy named James, a delightful British impresario who treated us to glasses of champagne and with whom we formed the collective SAF (single as fuck) based on the shedding of commitment we both had before moving to the city. We then proceded to spend the rest of the night twirling and giving face, and met loads of indispensable friends whose names I’ll never remember. After taking a taste of Le Bain and innumerable glasses of champagne, I separated from the group and fell asleep on the subway going the wrong direction. I ended up sucking it up and taking a cab to my mother’s hotel like a little girl, waking up the next morning and rushing home with ten minutes to change before work.

Of course I made it. I always do. All in all it’s been a delightful mix of luxe pleasure cruises and near-death experiences (I only threw up in one take-out box!). Keeping up with this bipolar city is already exhausting, but you live to work and you live to play, and whatever time you have left after that you spend power-napping in the bathroom.

It might not feel good, but you know, it can be done. And really, it must.

x0x0, Kat st. Kat, ~SAF~