Times are tough and the struggle is real. I just bought my daily red bull with change I found between the couch cushions. I had stale Pop Chips for lunch. Work is less frequent and my most recent paycheck is floating somewhere between the accounting office that printed it and my particular postal district. The only way I can pay cover for clubs is when I find cash on the ground. Phone calls home have become a lot less fun for everyone involved. I eat fast food for literally every meal (see exhibit A above, in which our hero can be found on foot in a Mcdonald’s drive thru at 3 am last Friday).
By the beginning of last week I’d fallen off my 30-day Calisthenics Challenge and replaced it with a slightly less strenuous Crunches and Squats Every Two or Three Days. I figure it’s better than nothing, and it has come in handy seeing as I rarely wear “actual clothes.” It’s definitely not making my thighs any smaller, but whenever that worry enters my mind I counter it with the most powerful image of all: Beyonce.
By the time Saturday rolled around I was glad I had at least somewhat kept up with my workout, as I had agreed to make a scantily clad appearance in the new Buckwheat Groats video, mostly because A) my boyfriend, the infamous Penis Bailey, had requested my presence and B) who am I to deny the world an unobscured view of me in a Baby Phat bikini waving around an AK-47? I spent the day at Shopper’s World looking for just the right accessories, pinned 15 pounds of weave in my head, glued on a set of fake nails and managed to convince Bill to come get drunk with me on the Brooklyn rooftop set. It was awkward at first, because it was 8 pm and I was sober and surrounded by strangers, all of whom were wearing shirts. An hour later I had a drink, I was waving a fake gun and a VERY REAL BOOTY in front of a camera and it felt like just another Saturday night. Eventually even Reid and Patrick showed up after their respective work commitments to drink liquor on camera and boost general morale. After only 5 hours of fake dancing we all went to Dizzyland (naturally), where I later realized I had stolen the Wang Chain I spent hours slaving to make for my man, who was only on his first day of shooting. I had Patrick keep the chain safe before I caught a cab from the party rather early, Wang around my neck, stripper shoes in hand, running on the outer edges of my swollen feet.On Sunday I ditched the weave and showed up for the second day of shooting in booty shorts and a cut-out bathing suit (so, church clothes basically).
I don’t want to give anything away, but the concept of this video involves a VERY MAJOR FAMOUS CELEBRITY who WE ALL GREW UP WATCHING AND ADMIRING and whose likeness I AM VERY LUCKY TO HAVE HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF SHAKING MY BODY ON, NEAR AND AROUND.
That’s all I’ll say for now.
(behind the scenes photo stolen from Lil Dinky)
MEANWHILE it’s official that the Groats are playing the GATHERING OF THE JUGGALOS this year, which is incredibly fucking ridiculous. Apparently they even have a shoutout in this official infomercial but I wouldn’t know for sure because it’s 28 minutes long and there is no chance of me watching it.
That Sunday night, after spending the day drinking Georgi in a basement and having stacks of hundreds thrown at my butt, I saw no reason not to meet up with my friends for a quick trip to Greenhouse. But by that point I was completely out of it. I led an a cappella rendition of Now That’s What I Call Music Volume 19 on the L train and took this picture on the dance floor
…before leaving early and going to McDonald’s.
It’s 6 o clock on Wednesday afternoon and the only things I’ve done this week are bedazzle a styrofoam penis with Swarovski crystals for my boyfriend, a very successful mentally unchallenged rap person, and watch Undeclared while eating peanut butter out of the thing. I’ve worked just enough in the past week to maintain a bank balance slightly greater than the amount I have already written in checks. Most importantly, I have regained the use of my brain and certain body parts temporarily rendered out of commission by the events of last week.
After I was abruptly swept into a derecho of PMS and Mercury Retrograde, all I wanted to do was treat myself with things I couldn’t technically afford. I began last week by trudging through the rain to get a bang trim, brazilian wax and Ameri-garb in preparation of the upcoming 4th of July soiree in Bushwick. I am a sucker for a theme and I really REALLY wanted an American Flag bikini. Failing to find one anywhere (not even on Knickerbocker, which I checked up and down about 6 times) I ended up after hours on Wednesday at the American Apparel in Soho, whimpering under fluorescent lights and trying to squeeze tiny red minidresses over my hips. I eventually settled on a blue thongatard which I figured I could find plenty of uses for even after the holiday, and went home to change into my Beetlejuice dress for Ghe20 Goth1k with the team.
That night we met at Moe’s apartment, where we listened to The Pointer Sisters on the roof, took selfies, and watched Bradford vogue with an actual taser.
We had an amazingly drama-free night, even if I did spend most of it sweating through my clothes and fanning myself with a piece of cardstock that said “$25 MINIMUM PER PERSON PLEASE SEE HOST TO BE SEAT.” Later we went to McDonald’s where I accepted that I am not in fact a pescetarian anymore and ate a McChicken in 13 seconds flat.
The plan for the 4th was to attend the “Roof Is On Fire 4th of July Soiree” being held by a group of Bushwick hotties, and to potentially take some acid along the way. Patrick met me at my apartment Thursday with two green business cards he’d been given by a stranger with the instruction to lick them. The word on the street was that somewhere on those little green pieces of cardboard was the equivalent of one tab of acid. How, though, were we expected to ingest the acid without say, eating an entire business card? We tore the first one up, it suddenly seeming not so little after all, and put it in a glass of water.
This was so it would get soggy, making it easier to suck on and then eventually swallow. Which I did, and which I immediately realized was not a great idea as I then had a very large wad of wet cardboard sliding past my windpipe and into my perpetually sensitive stomach. I drank the rest of the water in the glass. Patrick ended up chewing his for a while and spitting it out. Turns out I probably could have done that and gotten the exact same results.
After EATING A FUCKING BUSINESS CARD, smoking a decent amount of weed and transforming into the look of a superstar I was finally ready to leave my apartment and head to this party. Walking through my neighborhood dressed like a slutty drum major I felt my worldview start to melt like a sno cone. The business card was proving to be the real deal, which I hadn’t fully prepared myself for despite the great lengths I went to test it out.
When we finally arrived the color had left my face, with the exception of my expertly applied makeup, and I was covered in sweat. I was beginning to think too much. I needed an alcoholic beverage immediately, or else. But when we approached the doorway we realized it was being guarded by the landlord. We were being barred from entry, despite looking adorable and B-ing our own B and now fully experiencing the effects of major hallucinogens, by the Hasid Who Stole 4th of July.
The sun was beginning to set and it was still 90 degrees. With a bottle of Bacardi and a 2 liter of Diet Cherry Pepsi we were sitting half-defeated on the bench in front of the corner barbershop, listening to our party happen above our heads. How was this happening? And to us for that matter?
Just then, a very pregnant blonde woman with a red camisole and solo cup emerged from a nearby gate attached to the adjacent building. If anyone was going to be our ticket into this party it’d be her.
“Which party are you here for?”
“Um, the weird one?”
“Yeah you can get there from here, you just have to climb.”
We ascended a fourth floor walkup and I straddled two canoodling youngsters to climb the fire escape onto their roof. We were suddenly at a party, but not our party. This party had food and puppies. Our party had drugs and starving fashion people and was on a much taller rooftop connected by a metal staircase hanging about a foot above our heads. We tossed our bags over the railing and pulled ourselves over, just in time to enjoy an explosion of fireworks on every borough of the city. We left shortly after midnight, but not before I crawled down to the other party and stole a burger and a bag of Snyder’s of Hanover, climbing back up, mouth full, like some kind of rabid chola Spiderman.
I spent the next few days feeling a little off. I had one very swollen lymph node on the left side of my neck and I couldn’t speak at all. I was running out of breath trying to make sounds. Patrick was having similar symptoms and for a second I got a little freaked out. There is a meningitis outbreak in NYC right now so maybe sharing that cherry ring pop with 16 people at the roof party wasn’t such a great idea. Damn, we thought during a massive brunch at Pies and Thighs. What if we’re terminally ill now?
We shrugged, finished our fried chicken, and went to see The Bling Ring.
After finishing my last day of regular work last week and entering the freelance/unemployment world for the rest of the summer, I decided to spend my paycheck on Life Improvement. I have been in a constant battle against clutter since birth, one that usually involves me succumbing to my lack of storage options and suffocating under a dusty pile of magazines only to be found weeks later pale and lifeless with a ball of cat hair in my throat.
“Such a pity. If only she’d cleaned up her shit once in a while.”
This time I decided to face it head-on by forcing myself to go discount shopping for cleaning products. I was specifically dealing with the beginnings of a bug infestation, 3 trash bags of laundry, and a lack of storage space that filled my walk-in closet with piles of shoes and folded jeans and comforters to the brim. After 48 hours of spraying, sucking, swiffering, and hammering away I managed to reorganize everything. I even dusted. It was a great success, but I also had to dispose of the corpses of 30 dead flies a pile of cat poop I found in the back of my closet, so now I have PTSD.
My next reinvention would be my body, or at least my physical work ethic. I started doing three of those 30 DAY CHALLENGE calisthenics exercises where I basically murder myself slightly more effectively each day until, by the last, I am somehow able to do 250 squats and 200 crunches and 100 push ups or something INSANE. I have just completed the 8th day of this challenge and I am already feeling tighter, sore and generally less fun to be around. But soon I will be able to crush a man’s head with my thighs.
Friday night was the Steel Drums party with Teengirl Fantasy et al so I drank a bottle of creamsicle vodka with Reid and got waaasted in a sports bra, cut up bike shorts and platforms. The night culminated with me eating multiple very large pieces of Popeye’s chicken on the floor of my man’s apartment at 4 in the morning. This is the least flattering picture of me ever taken and I am delighted to share it with you.
Saturday morning I awoke with a splitting headache at 9 am and despite my early rise still mobilized at a glacial rate. Patrick and I had guest spots for Warm Up at PS1 (as you know I am not one for paying entry…unless it’s for a good cause and I don’t have to rob anyone to do it). I was supposed to meet him at 2:30, which in Kat Speak means 4. Failing to find a cab heading to Brooklyn from the LES in 90 degree weather on a Saturday, I took the M to my apartment to change, stomping home from Myrtle-Broadway (where they expected me to take a BUS after re-routing my train) dressed like a very sweaty sex worker.
So we did.
We wore @whateverr21 apparel and @h0les glasses, styled with @alienbrigade’s accessories including many of her own designs. Patrick took these photos through the lenses of the h0les glasses and they reeeally made us want to do acid.
About 4.5 hours later I had made out with a palm tree, covered myself in potting soil, been tied to a bouquet of black balloons, and ingested as well as sprayed my surroundings with at least four types of alcohol. I had plans to go out later, so on my way home to change I grabbed a red bull and a sleeve of ranch flavored Pringles, realizing I hadn’t eaten at all that day. Of course by the time I reached my bed at about midnight, there was no chance of me leaving again until Monday afternoon.
A write-up in the Bushwick Daily about the last Dizzyland included much better photos than what I presented last week (I set the bar really high, I know)
AND LASTLY, my friends Billy and Brian were featured in the most recent issue of BULLETT and they look fucking perfect.
Funemployment is officially the look for summer.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to Strawberry and buy an American Flag bikini.