When I feel like I haven’t done anything blog-worthy in recent history, I usually like to go through the photos on my phone and figure out what exactly I have been doing. According to the last month’s worth of jpegs, 98% of it has been taking pictures of my butt. The rest showed a series of small joys in a phase defined solely by my work schedule and my lack of energy to do anything else (not a great feeling).
I wonder if 24 is the last acceptable year for one’s greatest pleasure to be trans fats before they’re to be held accountable for their assumed knowledge of basic health and dietary standards. Possibly. There’s some obvious irony in the fact that I was a vegetarian for 4 years and even worked at a health food store, and that now if it doesn’t come in a box with a side of ketchup I’m probably not that stoked to eat it. I have a lot of theories about the correlation between poor nutrition as a novelty and the listless anti-intellectualism in post-“yes we can” America but I won’t get into that. Maybe someday I’ll write a book called The Politics of Dietary Yoloing. Anyway, I eat Mcdonalds. And I recently had a Slim Jim for the first time since senior year of high school and I could swear I saw God’s vagina. My mother also sent me a gigantic box of Welch’s Fruit Snacks, something I used to refuse to eat due to their gelatin content, but it turns out they’re pretty delicious. What is wrong with me? Is out of sight, out of mind my new food philosophy? Have I become so distracted with the stresses of the workday that my only emotional release is in the consumption of animal byproduct and MSG? There’s a reason Meat Cat came to Liz Lemon in a dream.
Since all my friends here have similar schedules, sometimes we don’t see each other for a while. The glory of social media has allowed many of my most treasured interactions to be with people hundreds of miles away, like writing with Alex over google hangout, texting Patrick about our post-ironic suburban ex-pat suicidal tendencies, or getting snapchats from my favorite friend I’ve never met Patrickthepuma (what’s his real name again?)
When I’m bored and alone and have no one to textflirt with (which hasn’t been the case for a few weeks now, in the interest of Minimum Disclosure) sometimes I check my Ok Cupid messages, but I rarely find anything more romantically viable than interactions like these.
If Dating Site Humor is something that strikes yer fancy, you should check out my cool friend Matt Starr’s Tinder Art. I actually met him on the app when he offered to make me a new profile picture for Facebook, that ended up looking like this.
The art I’ve been working on has been a performance project called Morale and Survival, where I attempt to find a will to live in sporadic sobriety and mid-week overcaffeination. It’s hardly worked, so I’ve been finding external pleasures like this screenshot collage I made in the middle of the night of one of my depressing tweets, and ordering chicken and waffles at work.
Since I usually try to write about partying and how much fun I’m constantly having, we can’t forget about Halloween. As usual, I was unprepared for the celebration, sitting on a set of half-baked costume ideas. That was, until the day before when I was wandering through Party Fair at closing time and found this gem for 14.99. A sign from the pimp gods, just for me. I would greet the world on Hallow’s Eve as a manifestation of Swag (pictured at top). Timely, appropriate, and with much reusability. Hannah’s last minute idea was Xtina circa the Dirrrty video, and with the help of my bronzer and a Juicy Couture bathing suit skirt I got a Belk’s in 2008 (idkkkk??) I think she pulled it off quite nicely. As it was a weeknight, the plan was to be home before 2 am. I actually was, but because I hadn’t been drinking for a few weeks I was also blackout. Hannah had to tuck me in bed and set my alarms for me, and the following workday was not a pretty picture whatsoever.
Perhaps it was my consistent high stress level or the unplanned drunkenness but the next week I was consumed with an ear ache and a high fever for three days. I went to an Ear, Nose & Throat specialist who removed hard rocks of wax from my ear and gave me a Nasonex prescription before sending me home with a fever of 101. There is nothing I hate more than trying to traverse this city alone with an illness, then returning home to work remotely while trying not to barf on my compy. My only pleasures that week were in the wonton soup delivery from Shen Zhou, and the Papa John’s pizza sent to me by my friend Sawyer, all the way from NC. In Grub We Trust, y’all.
Earlier this week, in celebration of the end of mercury retrograde and my dedication to spending the next year of my life in pursuit of my ~true passions~, I decided to get a pretty and kind of stupid tattoo (In the words of John Waters, sometimes stupid and cute /are/ enough). I went with Hannah to Morning Star tattoo on Wyckoff in Bushwick, where the metal is good (if you’re into that sort of thing) and the boys are rly rly cute. I got the letters “nsfw” for obvious reasons, and Hannah got some script in French that she has yet to instagram because idk y.
That brings me to a total of three tattoos: a cat, “whatever,” and “nsfw.” And sitting here typing this at my office desk, I don’t think they could be more accurate.