“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~

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