THE UGH OLYMPICS

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.

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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.