Growing up (is hard 2 do)

can't fight crime, kat st. kat, katstkat, patrickokay, unacclimated

In the summer of 2010 I once drank so much four loko that I staple-gunned my boot to my ankle. I must have looked so insane and pathetic in the attic of my much older friend’s house, sitting on the carpet with my legs in a W, laughing and crying a little as I pulled the metal out. I was 20 years old. I had no idea yet how to order a drink in a bar, but it wasn’t the first time I’d gotten drunk and hurt myself.

—–

A few days before I returned from North Carolina, while sexting a photo of my naked butt, I got an unexpected phone call about starting a new “gig,” (what the kids are calling jobs these days). It was a welcome opportunity since as you know I spent the major part of the last month fucking around, drinking cocktails and trying to get rid of my tan lines. But when I was torn from my spot on my childhood trampoline and catapulted into normal working hours back in lower manhattan, it was quite an adjustment. Every morning when my alarm goes off I am convinced there must be some way around it. This usually leads to a very rude awakening, followed by a lot of running through my apartment yelling “SHIT,” a lot of makeup and hair products being shoved into a giant canvas bag, and a lot of primping on the train.

It’s the same way I got ready for high school every morning. I’d guzzle 20 ounces of generously sugared black coffee in the passenger seat of my father’s car at 7 am, sometimes after sneaking out, taking drugs from strangers and only coming home to change my shirt. I’d drag the torn edges of my American Eagle jeans into first period hoping no one would notice I was five minutes late, or that I’d only slept twelve hours that week. In high school I was the girl who was greeted with giggles and whispers of “did you hear?” when I entered a room. My grades were impressive, I brushed my teeth twice a day and took a bath every night. But on any given weekend I’d probably drank half a bottle of watermelon burnette’s and gone skinny dipping in the backyard of a house party with someone’s boyfriend, or girlfriend, or both. I’d probably thrown up in a bush. Cheap liquor will do that to the girl who doesn’t eat. But I was gonna be famous. One day I’d be an Olsen twin.

—–

The summer of 2010, the one after we burned our house down, led to a winter, a spring, a subsequent summer and fall. By then I was great at ordering drinks in bars and guzzling bottles of sailor jerry on the back of my boyfriend’s motorcycle. I was even better at getting in drunken fights with that boyfriend almost daily. Some nights there were screaming matches in the streets. Other nights he’d carry me into our house over his shoulder after I had one too many shots. By my 22nd birthday I’d finished college, which might actually be the worst thing for a drinking problem. I was older, but I wasn’t an Olsen. I was depressed, directionless, 15 pounds heavier and never leaving the house. Until one day I did, and I ended up in jail. But that’s another story.

After the mandatory alcohol therapy and the somewhat sobering shame of making the front page of The Slammer, I started to get my act together. My unhealthy relationship had ended during a tumultuous Mercury Retrograde. I had a full time job where my coworker was a convicted felon on work release with an unlikely knack for life-coaching. I was spending one Wednesday a month dressing in my mother’s suits and hiding my undercut for court appearances to end up with a clean record. I was texting a funny writer boy in New York. I wanted to take risks, be stronger, do great things with my life and heart. So I started, and eventually I began to rise like a phoenix, I guess, from metaphorical ashes this time.

—–

Since then, I’ve only had a handful of dark drunken moments, most of which I laugh off and write about here. Once I cussed out a room full of innocent friends after drinking an unknown amount of four loko, which, by the way, is no longer my beverage of choice. Twice, maybe three times I’ve blacked out and cried, barefoot on a New York sidewalk. More times than I care to admit, I’ve looked into the wrong person’s eyes for too long.

Two weeks ago I went to sushi with my older brother in Durham, North Carolina. The site of my post-collegiate depression seemed so much cuter outside the haze. I’m sure it was because I’d moved on. I had prospects. I had a job. I’d worked in close proximity to major celebrities when less than two years prior I was watching them on apple TV, alone and hungover with the curtains drawn. He told me over martinis that he’d been reading my blog, and my first thought was fear. Embarrassment. When my brother was my age, he got married and had his first child. I’ve always admired him for that, the way he transformed almost overnight into this professional, responsible man. A daddy. Now 34 years old, he has a third baby on the way.

“Your life isn’t that crazy every night, though, is it?” he asked me. No, not always. And hopefully in the coming years it will be even less so. All of the stories are true; I take club drugs, I wake up too late, I pay for my groceries in quarters, sometimes I forget to eat and I drink too much and I say the wrong thing. I still ask my parents for money every now and then. But I turn 24 soon. I want some of those things to change, and I’m gonna have to figure out how.

Some days you get to work on time. Some days your hair looks perfect and your shirt’s right-side-out. Some days you exercise and some days you’re in love and there’s money in the bank and your shoes are tied and the kitty litter box is clean.

Some days your ambition rules you, your delusions roam freely, driving your life to those high points you are sure it will achieve someday. And some days you’re heartbroken, eating a can of beans in the tub. “But at least,” you think, “I remembered to bathe.”

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Renaissance or Something

rawk
I fired my therapist. She deserved it. I had originally hired her to help me through some of the stresses of moving to a new city, spending most of my time by myself, deciding the next move in my career, coming to terms with the way my upbringing has affected my relationships, you know, the usual shit. Once a week I would show up and crack my knuckles, excited to plow through these issues and move on with my life. She’d greet me in the waiting room with a meek, insincere half-smile. “How are you?” I’d ask her casually, to which she’d always respond “I’m okay.” Then she’d sit in silence and bored disapproval while I frowned out the window at the Empire State Building and psychoanalyzed myself. Sometimes I’d pause and look her way, inviting participation. She’d lift her chin abruptly as if startled from sleep, raise her eyebrows and make some empty comment like “you should do something about that.” I always left feeling very annoyed and slightly sorry for her. Was I the only person who could manage to pick a therapist more depressed than I was?

You all know that since the beginning of August I have singlehandedly held down New York for Team Big Things, getting by on my own with the help of the internet and the 4 friends I’ve made since I moved here. Much of TBT will be moving to Brooklyn in as soon as two weeks, and I am overcome with relief. I don’t even think I will realize how much it sucked to be here without them until I finally have them back. It’s texts like these that prove I will one day be back to norm again.
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For a while I played with the idea of meeting some people on the internet, which was a bust for the most part. A few months back I made a fun OkCupid profile as a joke. I often make joke profiles on social networks I think might be dumb out of curiosity. This would explain how I got stuck with “ButtButt” as a foursquare name, “Catdookie” on instagram, and “Slutz[underscore]Taco” on OkCupid. Turns out people don’t think you are joking when you call yourself a Slutz_Taco on a dating website. They truly think you will sleep with them even if they look like a sea monster made of turds and use pick up lines like these:
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God bless these fools. Nevertheless, I could not shake my desire for new mans. And attention in general, really.

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In a dramatic turn of events, it was the dumbness of the internet that eventually brought me together with a boothang. Snapchat, specifically. Have you ever snapchatted your phone number to someone in the middle of the night? If you haven’t, it is a great way to start a romantic rendezvous with your celebrity crush. I give it 5 out of 5 stars.

If you live in New York (and maybe even if you don’t, but I can’t say for sure), you’ve probably realized that A LOT of people have been getting sick with colds and haven’t been able to shake them for up to two fucking months. I’m not saying it’s a government conspiracy (CHEMTRAILS) but it has definitely affected me quite a bit and that has definitely sucked.
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^Here is a picture of me with a 102 degree fever after I sleepwalked to the corner store and bought a shit ton of cereal.
I’ve been to the doctor 3 times in the last month and in the meantime I have been slacking on all my other appointments. My cats are due for a teeth cleaning (do other people do this?) and it’s been so long since I’ve gotten brazilian that I’m positive my Bikini Artist is going to laugh in my face the next time I hit the spa.

When I’m NOT texting my new boo and nursing an illness sometimes I go out to public locations and alter my mind. I’m not sure what actually happens at these functions besides taking selfies but what else am I trying to do really?
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It should also be mentioned that I quit my job at the salon to start working on a TV show. Before I started this new “gig” I had the privilege of dipping down to North Carolina for a bit of fun, the photos of which I will unload later. It’s too much glamour and beauty and suburbia for this particular post.

WHILE I WAS GONE it brightened up substantially around the city and I have been loving it. Honestly if you would just follow me on instagram @catdookie I wouldn’t have to repost these here and it would be far more convenient for me overall.
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Cute, right? Now that winter is officially over and life officially no longer sucks, I’ve rediscovered the fun of walking around the city aimlessly. Also I think Jadakiss lives in my neighborhood.
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My new job is fabulous and great and everything you’d expect. I even made a new BEST FRIEND to add to the collection. It really helps to have a person around for moral support while you’re ruining your manicure and eating far too much craft services. I’m not sure how long this particular job will last because the end of the season is near, so I gotta get in as much free food as possible before then. IMG_8121 IMG_7897
I actually think I may be physically addicted to terrible food at this point. My hours at work are so crazy that I don’t really have the time (or fucks) for grocery shopping, so GrubHub is essentially my livelihood. The other day I ate no less than four kinds of fried seafood out of a cardboard box, and last week I ordered Chinese THREE times, one of which was just after I had finished eating Chinese. I never regret it until I step out of bed the next morning into a pile of empty takeout boxes. Then I feel just a bit gross.

Late hours do work well, though, with the fact that I like to stay up until 5 am playing with my hair (or having sex). Hannah got a job at a new salon where she gave me a brand new cut and color, and helped me style my fun new clip-in extensions.
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If you live in the city you should definitely check out Foster Glorioso at 5 East 19th Street. It’s super gorgeous and beyond chill. Plus they have wine!
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^Here we are on our way to the FIRST bachelorette party I’d ever been to. Our friend Lisa celebrated the end of her freedom and I spent all of my fucking money on male strippers! It was fun, but they should have been tipping MY ass…like, do you even see this weave? (Truly I’m kidding, these extensions were cheap as hell and take forever to put in, so mostly I’ve been rocking my new REAL hair a la Uma in Pulp Fiction on a good day. Still though.)

Yyyyeah, I’m still broke, I’m still crazy, and I still have a dead rat in my backyard (in case you were wondering). But I have a new job and new look so like, move over. ‘Cause this is a competition, and I am here 2 win.

SHOP TALK: gchatting at work

Alexander: oh hunny

my friends

and my roomie

are in nyc

now

for cmj

maybe you should go to one of their shows and meet them!

spencer is a nice cutie patootie too

and the only single one.

me: oh shit

Alexander: they are playing tho

in a band

they are good people to know

me: lol

who the fuck do you live with

also i’m gonna need a jpeg

Alexander: i live with giuliano

pizzulo

my bud

and he’s in a band with spencer

who i wrote a script with

and who i adore

he’s a lovable jew

who doesnt really practice either

so an atheist

but he’s the best!

a jpeg?

fine

me: non practicing jewish musician slash writers are my type HOW DID YOU KNOW

am i that transparent?

(yes.)

it’s either that or impotent asians with arrested development

i believe it’s most efficient to divide and conquer culturally when it comes to sex

right now i’m on jews, next is puerto ricans, then over 40 polish men that work in fried chicken restaurants

Alexander: ooooo chicken!

me: free food should not be discounted

are you going to tell me more about this cutie pie

Alexander: http://thepantryparty.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/incan-abraham-pic.jpg

the one on the left

far left

me: JEWTIE PIE

Alexander: (we’ve made out before)

me: yeah

Alexander: i think that’s an old photo

me: i don’t trust straight men whose bffs are gay

it’s policy. i know how things work.

Alexander: it was one time

and we were on drugs

calm down

me: haha I’M SO UNCLAM

Alexander: you are rude

im trying to set your up with GOOD PEOPLE

you dont have to hook up you know

you can have friends

stop thinking with your vagina

me: i’m not being rude at all you psycho

you’re the one who told me he was single!

Alexander: i thought it would sweeten the deal!

me: AND i’m obviously joking

Alexander: arigh arigh

me: i’d love to meet themin

i wish you were here!

to introduce us

so do you live with both of them?

Alexander: no just giuliano

me: GHOULIANO

kewl

Alexander: YAH

me: you got mad at me easily alex

are you having a rough morning

Alexander: no

i was just annoyed about finding a picture

because fb makes it hard

me: hahahaha

Alexander: im like buh buh buh

me: i thought you were trying to set me up with a boo

so i needed to see what he looked like of course

are you dating anyone:

ALEX

sorry that was accidental all caps

i’ve had a lot of coffee today

Alexander: mmmmm dates

but i dont really want to commit to anything

tbh

me: yeah

same

i don’t really have a life

Alexander: so the dating is inherently

kinda lame

because i waste time and money

and im like what was that for again?

me: so if i got a man he’d like become my life probably and that would suk

hahaha

Alexander: exactly

me: have you been ~sexually active~

Alexander: it doesnt make sense really now

~yes~

it was funny

i was hooking up with this guy

me: lolol

Alexander: but he got all intimate on me

and started choking me

and i was like????

so choked him back

it was fun

but he wanted to cuddle

and i wanted to sleep

so im over it

me: hahahaha

choking AND cuddling

jesus

bipolar sex

Alexander: yeah

the funny part was that the choking was more fun than the cuddling

and it just got way to intimate

like the second date

i asked him to stay over

me: i’m sorry

for what i just tweeted

let me know if i should delete it

Alexander: ill check it later

but like

me: haha i just quoted you saying “the choking was more fun than the cuddling”

Alexander: we were doing ourselves

you know

and then he kept being like

“im thinking about you fucking me”

and i was like

….

me: what do you mean “doing ourselves”

Alexander: i dont know it was a turn off

like whacking ourselves off

me: hahaha

why was that a turn off

wasn’t that the point?

OR WAS IT

Alexander: im not sure

i just dont think i like him

so maybe it wasn’t even that

me: yeah it doesn’t sound like it

well

Alexander: normally i’d be into it (the dirty talk)

me: sometimes it’s hard for me to feel intimate towards someone in the light of day

if i don’t like them a LOT

Alexander: i did like the choking though

me: it’s either get in/get out or marry me

Alexander: exactly

me: unless i’m drunk

Alexander: yeah

and i think being promiscuous is fun

me: in which case let’s pretend to be married even though we don’t know each other

Alexander: but let it just be business then

me: haha yeah

Alexander: im more upset you didnt @mention me

me: i did!

Alexander: hrtmmm

HAHAHA

YES

into it

sorry it didnt come up till now

me: hahahha

i miss youuuu

Alexander: yayayaya

me too

i think im going to base my new character after you in my next script

but later kathryn

me: hahaha

less cray

Alexander: like 28 yr old kathryn

me: the adult, productive me

with a sprinkle of neurosis and sex addiction

I LIKE IT

Alexander: and a smidgel of alcohol dependency

(i’ve already written a little bit of the script so go with it)

me: smidgel!

oooh

i’m so thrilled future me is inspirational to you

Alexander: she’s hungover over the in the first scene

but she’s funny!

me: five years in the future and 3000 miles away

Alexander: haha

me: but still

to backtrack

it’d be nice to have a meaningful relationship with someone other than the dude who wraps my chipotle burritos

Alexander: HAHAHHAA

i just LOL’d really hard

me: hahaha yayyy

i refuse to do actual work right now

Alexander: #tweetingit

me: my assignment is to do research on these two decapitated baseball players

Alexander: LOL

me: HAHA

i love that that’s ur reaction

we understand each other

we also love ourselves so much IT’S GREAT

Alexander: i mean i can see them running around the field

and bumping into each other

and miss the popfly

and they are like DAMN IT

WE nEED OUR HEADS

me: HASHAHAHAA

this is really bad that i’m laughing at this when i just read three articles about their devastated families.

has anyone seen my soul? anyone? missing soul over here.

Alexander: LOL

me: i should have stopped eating hours ago

Alexander: HAH

i should have started doing work hours ago

me: hahaha

Alexander: see with my situation is that i could be fired

and my career ruined.

me: we should start our own business

Alexander: this is me writing last night

“THIS IS SO TERRIBLE”

i order a pizza

come back to it

and im like “eh it’s not so bad”

and then keep writing

me: hahahaha

Alexander: i think i was just grumpy

and hungry

me: and you know sometimes you just have to take a step back

how many scripts do you have now?’

Alexander: well this will be my 2nd feature

but it’s fun

ill send you logline

me: yes

is it going to be overly self referential

Alexander: yeah it already is

me: teha

did you see cabin in the woods?

it was a great concept gone bad

Alexander:YEA

i liked it

me: hahaha

Alexander: but only because i was really high

me: i liked it too

i just thought it could have been way cooler

Alexander: and i didnt know what was going on

me: hahahaha

you were probably their exact target audience

Alexander: OH

but spencer’s band

http://pitchfork.com/reviews/tracks/

they are on pitchfork today

very happy for them!

me: what’s the name of the band?

Alexander: incan abraham

me: lol

that’s a ridiculous name

i love it

Alexander: yeah im not sure either but their new song is pretty good

im more excited for their next release but since this is their first posting on pitchfork it means good things

me: yeah that’s huge

Alexander: yeah giuliano called me

this morning

freaking out

me: success for everyone!

Alexander: he was like “I HAD TO TELL SOMEONE”

me: aww

Alexander: and i was like YAY

me: are you guys getting married?

Alexander: TAKE ME ON TOUR WITH YOU

me: there has to be a division of pulitzers reserved for the worst news headlines

“All Tragic Death Team”

Alexander: hahahaa

lol

me: “A Moonless Evening, A Quiet Lake”

are these people kidding

i just said bless you to my coworker and he said “i know right”

Alexander: ?

haha

you are making me laugh today

i keep forgetting you are my muse

me: hahahahahahahahah

that is literally the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me

you say the darndest things

we should do this more often

Alexander: yeah

well i was having trouble engaging with my main character last night

and i realize i STILL need to base it off people i know

regardless of cliches

of the heroine

me: can i be perfectly honest when i say that i have mostly been switching back and forth between tumblr and the amazon preview of “brief history of time” for the past 2 hours

Alexander: HAH

like terence malick?

or am i just making things up

me: what about terence

Alexander: didn’t he do that

and that was like a companion piece to

Tree of Life?

me: probably

i don’t think i’ve seen a single one of his movies

Alexander: hmmmm  

well

Thin Red Line

is awesome

tree of life made me cry

um days of heaven is great

never saw new world

and badlands is classic

he’s only made 5 or 6 films

in 40 years

and there are not interviews with him

apparently

as he’s a recluse

me: haha

loser

oh, sweet deuces

My personal assistant sucks. I leave for my new residence in Brooklyn in 2 days and she has barely even started packing up my shit. The sink is full of dishes, my inbox is full of unanswered emails, the litter box is overflowing with poop and tiny pieces of clay. How am I supposed to be ready to move by Sunday if I’m out being ratchet every night and she’s sitting on her ass watching Gossip Girl or whatever?

If my assistant were real, I would probably fire her ass.

Instead the responsibility is 100% on me to not be a failure and literally get my shit together, and I’ve fallen significantly behind. Something happens when it hits you that your entire life is about to change, including your relationships with everyone in it. For some, that something is a state of panic setting in, sending them into a packing and planning frenzy (think Jennifer Hudson’s character in the first Sex and the City movie but on PCP). I’m taking the more lackadaisical approach of half-packing one or two boxes a day, considering that an accomplishment and spending the rest of each evening on a mini-bender. Remember those last few weeks of summer before going away to college? This is just like that, only with much less of an excuse for acting like a 17-year-old.

In the meantime, I have completed some of the items on my Triangle Tribute list. Since I am single again (I think you’re all pretty sure how this works by now) I’ve been looking for ways to stay busy that are simultaneously fulfilling and unproductive. Mostly this means going to Raleigh a lot to Sass, Justin and Katy’s house. Nestled in the promised land just above the fast-food strip of Western Boulevard, I’ve been “pre-gaming” with them (do adults call it pre-gaming? can I even call it that if I’ve never drank and watched a game in my entire life?) and then hitting the town, as it were. I thought completing this list was going to bathe me in nostalgia and I’d find closure with my birthplace then spread my wings and fly and shit. Instead, it just reminded me that I’ve spent the last 8 years doing the same thing every weekend and I could really use a change. That being said, I respect the Triangle and the Triangle knows. It’s an unpretentious place, it has some decent stuff to offer, and the people who love it here really love it. Just as with my recent ex-boyfriend, the Triangle and I are parting ways amicably. But not without a fight.

It all started when Reid returned from London and we decided to celebrate with my very first and very last experience at Top of the Hill. After forgetting my ID, faking an accent and telling a trillion lies to the bouncer for no reason at all, I was allowed to enter “the club.” It was pretty unimpressive as I could have expected, but my level of intoxication overrode any inhibition I may have had and I spent a good two hours dancing on a chair to every Rihanna single ever. My neck was only sore for the next four days so I must have done something right.

I can’t remember if it was the next night or not because my days have started to run together, but I decided to hit up First Friday with my Ralz crew a few weekends ago. If you didn’t know, “hit up First Friday” means drink at home until at least 12:30 am and then try to find something to do downtown. After heading to Dirty Mega and standing outside refusing to pay for it because we missed Chocolate Rice, we relocated to Neptune’s, what at times feels like Raleigh’s only bar. I quickly realized, I don’t feel that bad leaving a town where the main attraction is waiting in line for 20 minutes to get into a bar where the guys are all wearing flip-flops. Sorry Raleigh, I love you, we’re just not compatible.

After I’d had a string of bad days last week, I decided to make myself feel better the only way I know how: impromptu bargain wig shopping. It worked smashingly! Mindy, Lauren and Derick joined Katy, Sass, Justin and I in a three-hour boy band sing sesh during which we each consumed a bottle of something. Then we each bought more bottles of something and brought them to the rose garden. There were two or three other groups of wayward mid-week partiers with whom we made friends and by whom we were almost murdered. That was fun. The next day I drowned all my sorrows in Cheerwine and pink hair dye to repair the damage.

In other news, I finished my last day at Whole Foods on Sunday and found someone beautiful and perfect enough to sublet my Carrboro room. I think I’ve decided which clothes I want to bring with me to NY (I can only bring 6 suitcases so I’m freaking out). Clearly I’m in a little bit of denial that this is the end, but I’m just gonna put on these shades I found under my dresser and look toward the future.

RALEIGH I’M LEAVING AND THIS IS THE HARDEST THING I’VE EVER HAD TO DO, BUT I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU. Cause that’s the kind of bitch I am.

Are you there, coma? It’s me, Kat st. Kat.

Late Monday night I took an effective dose of some mild painkillers and rode a bus 500 miles down the east coast. The following is an excerpt from my stream of consciousness.
“I am in a Long Distance Relationship with “another young writer” that lives in Brooklyn, United States.
On my way home from visiting him I have to take two busses. I am on the second, the megabus from washington dc to durham, and i can’t decide if i’m bored. I can’t decide if i am nervous about not having a ride to my house when i get to the stop at 4 in the morning. i can’t decide how fucked up i am after taking those two percocets. was the idea that i would sleep until i got home? i don’t remember. i think i’m having way more fun forcing myself to stay up so i can feel just how useless my brain has become. i am typing very slowly. i can’t remember if i already typed that. i am next to the emergency exit on the bus. for a while when the internet wasn’t working i debated pulling it to make a huge scene and express my frustration. the internet still doesn’t work but my second percocet kicked in and now i feel like one of those stress reliever balls. i feel like one of toro y moi’s synthesizers. i feel like one of the blockheads from gumby. i feel like anything on the show gumby. i feel like an animated video transition from I Love the 80s on vh1. i feel like i’m being given a swirly in a toilet filled with mashed potatoes. the thing about percocet is that it’s mostly tylenol.

i am listening to “Everybody Everybody” by Black Box, which is one of only 200 songs i put on the ipod nano that used to belong to my ex. i just reached to rub my itchy nose and on the way i slapped my mouth with what i thought was very little force but sure enough i am bleeding. Now I am listening to the song “Simple Things” by Zero 7 which is basically like taking three more percocets, lighting 50 tea candles and taking a bubble bath, except that instead of a bath I’m in a bus and instead of bubbles it is filled with some strangers.

shoutout to my boyfriend who is on a new york subway right now. i wonder if he is fucked up enough to pretend the random stranger next to him is just me and that we are still chillin. I’m trying to do that with the girl next to me but she has twist-outs which don’t look super flattering on white dudes.

if someone could keep a journal during a coma and we were able to compare notes…

but see when you’re in a coma you don’t have the luxury of making ridiculous faces in the dark because your face feels funny. so i win.

THE COMA DIARIES

SEX AND TEH COMA, BY ANNE FRANK

COMA ON EILEEN

JUST ME N MY COMA

COMA AND BEEZUS BY JUDY BLUME OR WHATEVER

-possible titles for a fake coma memoir

i could have packed like 5 more outfits in these bags under my eyes. i have to work at 9 am tomorrow/today which is pretty stupid. at work my friend Carl* who is on work leave from prison will be very excited to see me and the sugar skull i drew on a picture of what i think might have been a young queen elizabeth as a souvenir. Carl is my life coach. He teaches me about rising above the haters and following my dreams. He thinks i am going to write the great american novel. I have never mentioned wanting to write a novel. I might write a novel about Carl.

It feels like someone filled my ears with opium-infused marshmallow fluff. I keep seeing all this horse imagery on highway billboards and other than a vague curiosity i feel largely unaffected by this coincidence.

If listening to gucci mane makes you shed a single tear for your long distance boyfriend and crack a mona lisa smile while looking at the stars, scale of 1 to 10, how normal is that.

~

I feel pretty good about most things.”

*name has been changed

Sext Me Like You Mean It

Confession time. When I was little I was really into AOL chat rooms. Every few nights after Lizzie Mcguire went off and my parents went to sleep, I’d spend a good 2 or 3 hours having conversations with the alter egos of sex offenders on multiple continents, lying about my own A/S/L in what I thought was a clever ruse for manipulating teenage boys. I never really considered that this might be a fairly unsafe way for an 11 year old girl to spend her time, and despite my shock and disgust at the picture of that (I kid you not) three foot long black dong that someone sent me one evening, I didn’t possess the common sense to look away. Luckily, albeit mortifying, my parents eventually hinted that they “knew what was going on,” and this whole charade was put to end before I ended up on To Catch a Predator or in a real life version of Hard Candy (you decide if being pursued by crazed child molester is worse than being compared to Ellen Page).

Fast forward about five years, when I was the last non-deaf/mute person on planet earth without a cell phone. This unfortunate circumstance, combined with my inability to have  vigorous sex with my boyfriend on all surfaces at all times, led to some seriously risky landline phone sex that I wish I could say was never overheard by someone blood related to me. I must have really liked this guy, because actual voice-on-voice phone sex is a serious commitment in the 10th grade. I wasn’t just telling some boy on AIM that I wanted to see his peen; I was exposing myself to the very awkward, very uncomfortable “oohs” and “ahs” of inexperienced 16-year-old fantasy. This was some next-level shit.

But I am an adult now, and my relationships have gotten a lot more sophisticated. Like, I have real-life sex sometimes with people my own age. I’ve been in one or two semi-healthy serious commitment thingamajigs and managed to make it out alive. And for the times when real human contact fails to deliver, I have a cell phone that sends both text messages and one-ish megapixel photographs at the speed of light to people who have remote sexual interest in me. Recently I realized that this, beyond all other forms of communication, might be my favorite way to interact with other humans.

Sexting is the low maintenance younger sister of the Actual Relationship. All of the basic elements of desire and intent are in place, and your knowledge of the person on the other end is usually at least one step above anonymity. Whether the two of you would actually “do it” if given the opportunity depends on your respective commitments and how attractive the two of you actually find each other. There could be some major tectonic something-or-other keeping the two of you from what you are certain would be a physically and spiritually enlightening experience for all. Or perhaps one, maybe neither, of you would ever actually go through with it and the other is drunk and in need of attention. I have probably been on every side of each of these scenarios, and this is the first of many reasons why sexting is such a beautiful concept: It is truly of no consequence how the two of you actually feel about each other, as sexual partners or as individuals. All that is necessary for a decent sext exchange is faint interest in having someone describe the current state of their anatomy to you in explicit detail, your willingness to reciprocate, and the basic understanding that neither of you is going to find and rape the other.

The second thing that sets sexting apart from real courtship thus making it infinitely better is the ability to participate while looking like shit. One of my favorite pastimes is sitting around in sweatpants and a layer of mild body odor with my stupid hair in an amorphous bun on top of my head and talking to an old flame (or random hookup) about the sex dreams we had about each other the previous night. It would be hard for you to convince me that there is anything better than watching Workaholics and eating Cheetos in a state that would usually make you hate yourself, but every few minutes having your ego stroked by someone sending you emoticons about your clitoris. In fact, you can pretty much sext during anything, no matter the importance. I, like many, have been known to get quite verbose when drunk at parties. But I can also say I’ve sent a few delicious tidbits on a break at work or under the table during dinner with my parents. I mean this shit can last all day.

It gets a little more complicated once naked pictures come into play. Maybe some of you aren’t really “into” naked pics because you always worry deep down about what people will see on your Behind the Music one day, which I would understand if it were still 1995. But it’s 2012, and if you don’t have at least one naked picture floating around you must be doing something very wrong. I encourage you to unleash a couple nudes into the universe, at least before you become someone’s mother. If you ever become famous enough that anyone but the recipient in question ever gives a shit, it will only help your career. The only reason anyone ever defends Chris Brown is because of how big his dick is. Just think, if you look good naked, you can get away with disfiguring someone’s face. I’m pretty sure it won’t matter that you showed someone.

I usually like to start with something tasteful yet tantalizing, maybe a shot from the shoulders-up with my mouth open a little bit or a bra strap hanging off. Those are usually pretty easy and inconspicuous to take yourself if you’re in a public bathroom. If you’re feeling in the mood, a good nip-slip or two never hurt anybody. Then, as things progress and you guys get drunker, depending on how much you trust this creep, you might want to send a full body shot. Who am I to judge? But I will say, they are very hard to take yourself. You may need five tequila shots and a very good friend to help you out with this one. Who knows what you might get sent in return. I once dated a guy who sent me pictures of things he’d drawn on his boner with sharpie. The possibilities are endless.

People often ask me, Kat, what happens when you have more than one sexting partner? Are you expected to be monogamous? Is it tacky to reuse the same naked pictures with multiple people? The answer, of course, is I don’t know. I have never been very good at “not being controversial when it comes to doing what I want sexually and otherwise.” The line between flirting and being a tramp is always a blurry one, both sides of which I’ve been told I belong. But I say use your discretion. I probably wouldn’t give the impression that you actually like someone if you’re sending jpegs of your cooch to all his friends. But if two poor schmucks hit you up on the same night and you’ve got last week’s fabulous titty pic waiting in the wings, it’s not illegal to re-send it once or twice. Those things don’t grow on trees. You can always save the really special photos for that really special person.

Or better still, you could actually have sex with them.

Be Mine, Self

Listen, I know I talked all that shit about Valentine’s Day, but I hope we’ve all found at least one reason to celebrate our wonderful, ratchet selves today. Maybe you’ve got a partner, maybe you’re single, or maybe (my personal favorite) you’ve got a little sum’n on the side. But the fact of the matter is, you really need to look no further than your own fucking fabulous reflection in the mirror. I just danced around naked and sang this song to myself; It’s not too late for you to do the same.

And remember, beautiful bitches, in the words of The Queen Ru Paul…

If you don’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else?!

Happy Valentine’s
xx