All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Yolo

THERE’S SO MUCH TO DO IN NEW YORK, AM I RIGHT? But sometimes that’s the problem. Though not nearly as busy as my summer schedule, I’ve had plenty of invites over the last couple of weeks to keep me busy. Labor day weekend brought the promise of ample nonsense as I had finished my internship and figured I might as well cushion the blow of my impending unemployment. I was going to go out to bars and parties and shows and the beach, and they were all going to be at least half amazing. What it turned into was an anticlimactic sequence of events that stretched into the next several days, leaving me with a pointless hangover from the holiday weekend to fashion week.

It had been the plan to go to Ft. Tilden on Labor Day for weeks, and we weren’t about to back out even though the weather was on some bullshit. I had gone out the night before for juuust enough time to drink a Raspberry Lemonade Four Loko, make 1.5 friends, get a headache and go home. I woke up the next “morning” and took my time getting ready. I probably made some fried rice since I pretty much eat that every day now (a segment on cheap and easy meals for the near-homeless and nutritionally concerned to come at a later date). Never mind the sad image of me squeezing the last of the sriracha into my mouth while eating my first of three meals that day consisting of 98% carbohydrates. I had hope for this beach trip. I wore my favorite sequined hat and brought my signature BUTT/FACE towel that my mom got me from Big Lots. I had sunscreen. I had, like, a book. It somehow didn’t matter that we weren’t going to get to the beach until 4:30. I was even convinced that the cloud cover would relent and we’d have at least a few hours of drinking in the sun.

Um, it didn’t. But for some reason I am oddly dedicated to celebrating every single national holiday to the fullest. On the Fourth of July I woke Patrick up and made him carry a box of Corona and a bag of ice from his apartment to Central Park, just so we could sit and drink while making fun of people LIKE REAL AMERICANS. To answer your question, no, it didn’t occur to me that we were drinking Mexican beer. We also forgot a bottle opener. The point is, doing cliche shit on holidays for whatever reason makes me feel actualized. So when we got to the beach and saw Natalia leaving and a bunch of storm clouds rolling in, Hannah, Winston and I sat and enjoyed our mixed drinks in defiance. None of us brought jackets so we wrapped ourselves in towels. It was actually pretty cold considering the lack of sun and the strong winds and the fact that we were sort of getting rained on. The weather held out long enough, though, for us to leave the beach and troll a nearby park until about 9, when we took the wrong bus back to Brooklyn and ended up at a part of the 1 train I didn’t know existed.


Later that night my brother got sick, probably because we drank about four types of liquor that day. I tried to force feed him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but he ended up just puking in my sink, so he and his girlfriend went home to recoup. I met up with my friend Jeffrey who was visiting from North Carolina and proceded to bar-hop in Bushwick. We were denied entrance everywhere because it was last call.

That’s Jeffrey posing beside what I believe is the tag “Young Rectum.”

I spent the next day in my apartment, watching TV and probably eating more rice. I left Jeffrey with his more enthusiastic friends and the promise that we’d go out again on Wednesday. I don’t remember exactly what we had planned. A party at Thompson LES maybe? So I got “fancy” with a mini dress/platform combo I’ve worn more than once this summer, and waited to meet him in the city. By the time he was on his way it was after midnight, which would have been fine, except that the L train near my house wasn’t running after midnight and the Knickerbocker M station is closed for renovations until 2050. I had to take a SHUTTLE from Dekalb to Lorimer street all jam packed with entry level alts and teen gay runaways. Traumatic, to say the least. By the time I met Jeffrey and Kate at Union Square and we drove to the Lower East Side…the party was completely over. We spent the rest of the night drinking vodka out of a Smart water bottle, chasing it with Diet Cranberry Ocean Spray and taking pictures of ourselves doing stupid shit. I stumbled home around 5:30.

It’s important to take lots of pictures of your outfit when you know no one is going to see you that night. Oh, um, here I am hanging out with a Pontiac. 

Days later, the same thing would happen when my friends and I planned to go to a fashion week after party we were on the list for, but after pre-gaming (I have got to grow out of calling it that) and taking an hour’s worth of train rides, arrived just as they closed the list (What does that even mean? Do you know who I am?!). As it turns out, the only reason we left the house that night was so Winston could get a $100 ticket for jumping a subway turnstile. It hasn’t been his week.

So what am I to do? Leave my house before midnight? Show up early for things? As simple as that sounds, I can’t justify putting in all that extra effort just to spend more money on drinks. It cramps my style. I also have about $30 to my name. So maybe fuck showing up at all.  Who needs friends and fabulous company? I’ll just be aimlessly roaming the streets taking pictures of myself with my arm around inanimate objects.

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