SHOP TALK: gchatting at work

Alexander: oh hunny

my friends

and my roomie

are in nyc


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


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?


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

am i that transparent?


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


the one on the left

far left


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



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:


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


me: yeah


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


Alexander: exactly

me: have you been ~sexually active~

Alexander: it doesnt make sense really now


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


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?


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


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



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


Alexander: and a smidgel of alcohol dependency

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

me: smidgel!


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



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


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


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

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?


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

“All Tragic Death Team”

Alexander: hahahaa


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: ?


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  


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


as he’s a recluse

me: haha


Martha Fuckers

Last time we spoke I was at the airport waiting for a plane to Boston where I then met Kedrin and my mother, took the Peter Pan bus 1.5 hours to Wood’s Hole and then a ferry to our final destination of Martha’s Vineyard. I was pretty sure we were headed for some innocent family fun. I mostly packed silk and oversized sweaters. You see, my brother is a full-fledged adult about 14 years my senior with a legitimate/demanding job in the medical field, and I have always admired him for this and other reasons. My mom has always compared the two of us because we have similar attitudes and similar taste in men. I see him about once a year, so I always try to make a solid impression.

When we first got on the island it was child’s play. A lot of “this is this” and “that is that” touring around town, photo-oping and hiding my tattoos. I figured I should try to pretend to be a “respectable adult” (I use that term a lot even though I don’t really know what it means) at least until we popped our first champagne. It was kind of working? I hadn’t seen my mom in a while and she had yet to mention anything about the fact that I have no money or how am I going to survive in New York if I just keep taking unpaid internships or have I been having unprotected sex. Things were going well so far.

My brother (his name is Nathan although everyone was calling him “Nate” in an official capacity, which I at first thought was weird but then attributed to his likely desire to simplify his Starbucks orders, which is originally why I started introducing myself as “Kat”), along with his friends whose names I have already forgotten, took us to the west side of the island to see the sunset. It was sort of unbelievable, partly because I don’t remember the last time I saw the sun set over the ocean, and partly because I hadn’t been outside without smelling feces and rat guts for the past five months. It may as well have been Aruba. Or Bermuda. Or anywhere else they sing about in that Beach Boys song where white girls frequently watch the sunset and then get mysteriously abducted. I realized that my brother and I are both single, which is probably the first time this has happened since he was in the closet and I was five. We both love to drink and talk shit. And we both do this thing pretty frequently:

Which is cool. We also both believe in decadence and overeating, so that night we all went to a seafood restaurant and ordered four tiers of oysters and shrimp cocktail and endless bowls of chowder. Our “unconventional” method of dining made everyone in the restaurant inexplicably angry and confused, and they looked at us as if we had just dived face-first into their personal lobster bisque. Now, understand that the end of September is unanimously believed to be the best time of year in Martha’s Vineyard. Mostly because the weather is perfect and there are no tourists, and they always say you should only eat shellfish in months that have an “r” in them. The restaurant was comparatively uncrowded, so I was told. But in a town like Martha’s Vineyard where the point is kind of to be a tourist, the social makeup in the autumn months is sort of questionable. Everyone is a local (so everyone knows everyone, and yes, they are talking about you right now), everyone works about four months out of the year, and everyone is an alcoholic. But at the same time they’re all decked out in Vineyard Vines (it is entirely possible that the phrase “all decked out” actually originated in Martha’s Vineyard but I could completely be making that up). Also there are a lot of weird gingerbread-looking houses and references to the movie Jaws. It’s pretty much what I imagine Disney World would be like if after all the patrons went home the workers took off their plush costumes and sat around drinking and shucking clams. You’d think it’d be cool, but it’s mostly just strange. It’s the kind of place where your neighbors will openly wonder why your blinds are shut all the time, and then mention it to someone who then mentions it to someone else who will then come to you legitimately concerned. You could try to “do you” in Martha’s Vineyard, but I bet it’d be pretty tough. 

Despite that fact, I have to say that Martha’s Vineyard is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen and I totally get why people love it. I also get why so many political figures have gotten DUIs there, but we’ll get to that.

The next day I did some outdoorsy stuff like swim in a lake and jump off of Jaws Bridge, just so I could be one of those people on facebook who posts a picture of themselves jumping off a bridge where my body is all tiny and everyone’s like “oh cool!” but it doesn’t actually look like a big jump and is not super interesting for anyone who wasn’t there.
I still felt pretty cool. For those of you who don’t know, this is called Jaws Bridge because it, like many other parts of the island, appears in the movie Jaws multiple times. Despite having taken something like 42 credits worth of film classes in college I had never seen more than a few scenes in that movie until that weekend. It’s pretty funny; when you watch the movie after touring the island, you realize most of it was filmed just a few hundred feet off shore.

On Saturday we brought more shrimp cocktail and white wine on the 2-car “ferry” to a cook-out on Chappy (aka Chappaquiddick, a word whose google search yields a wiki page for something known as the “Chappaquiddick Incident” when Ted Kennedy basically drunk-drove his mistress off a bridge, left her for dead and ruined his political career. Saturday night was about to do something similar to my reputation). The cook out (or ‘barbecue’ as I refuse to call it) was made up mostly of well-to-do white people in their late 30s to mid 40s and their well-to-do children. Nestled nicely in the middle of that age gap I became the only person silently chugging wine and eating all the food. To this day I am so ashamed of how much food was left when the sun went down that night. I could have done better.

Later that evening was a fashion show for this thing called “Martha’s Vineyard Fashion Week” which I have a hard time typing without feeling deeply embarrassed for that entire island. Thankfully we missed the show itself and made it just in time to drink 7 cocktails and stomp up and down the empty runway to Rihanna and 2010 disco house. I was doing high-kicks and splits and pirouettes in the corner, swing dancing with Nate and head banging with Kedrin. Family bonding at its finest, but you see how this could get you in trouble on an island of 15,000 people.

Downstairs at the bar, probably one of three places people actually hang out in Martha’s Vineyard, I met this sexy Serbian dude that could barely speak any English, so naturally we hit it off. But that’s when the bullshit started. I walked back to his house where he stayed with a bunch of other Serbians who appeared to be around my age. We were in the middle of casually doing our thing when he told me, in so many words, that he didn’t want to ~go down~ because I had some pubes. Sometimes I like to be really chill about it, dude. What gives? I told him to fuck off and didn’t say anything about him being uncircumcised because I am a lady.

When I got back to the bar my friends and family were gone, and I proceeded to dump my woes on the cute gay bartender. I asked him for a drink which I’m sure I incorrectly assumed was free, when some puny late-thirties guy from Boston started talking to me. I think I said a paragraph or two about my life before he told me I sounded full of myself. Drunk guys regularly get a false sense of intellectual superiority around me and try to Psych 101 me into confessing that deep down I’m really insecure and I’m just looking for a white knight. I told the guy I felt bad that he has such a lack of confidence that he has to project it onto strangers he meets in bars. Then I told him the reason I act like I’m better than him is because I am, threw my jacket over my drink and walked out of the bar. It wasn’t really my night.

Thanks to google maps we now know that when I left the bar I wasn’t more than ten minute walk from my brother’s house. But at the time my phone was dead and I had been drinking since 4 o clock and I wasn’t really sure what I was doing. I think an old man picked me up in his car, took me to his house and I drank his liquor and thought about robbing him before taking off running out his front door and into the woods. I know this sounds fake. It’s not. Martha’s Vineyard is just a super fake place. I spent what must have been the next two hours walking the perimeter of the island looking for familiar surroundings, diving into the bushes every time a truck drove by. I passed the hospital where my brother works on three different occasions. I think I peed in someone’s front yard.

When I got to the bridge for Vineyard Haven, I knew I’d gone too far. I was exhausted. I was fucked. My feet hurt because I was wearing these Keds-style shoes I’d gotten at H&M five years ago and had worn small holes in each sole. I remember laying down on the ground in a patch of dirt on the bank, looking up at the stars and sort of laugh-crying. It didn’t really matter that this was happening. It didn’t really count anyway because I’d be gone by Monday. I was just getting really hungry.

Just then an Aerostar van full of Brazilian teenagers pulled up and offered me a ride. I borrowed one of their cell phones and got directions from my mom (I seriously think it was only about 12:30 at this point). Everyone was yelling at me in Portugese and laughing. I thanked them in the most appropriate fashion I could muster and got out of the van, where I met Nathan’s friends in the kitchen and assisted them in eating something that I know was well outside my dietary restrictions. My mother was wrapped in a blanket on the couch. Kedrin was nowhere to be found. My brother was screaming at everyone from his bed to shut the fuck up, and that we were adults, and that his friends should fucking leave so he could get some sleep. One of them later puked in my mother’s Brooks Brothers flats. It was pretty hilarious.

The next morning Kedrin was still missing and her phone was dead. Should we call the police? “It hasn’t been 24 hours,” Nathan said, “Let’s go to the beach.” This is the kind of guy he is. Efficient, impatient, and mostly right. We went up-island where all the property is owned by the whole of Jewish Hollywood and I got THE best lobster roll I’ve ever had in my life, saw some seriously eroding dunes and drank tons of beer. Nate and I shared stories about our magnetic attraction to dysfunctional men and he told me his secrets on how to become a self-made world-traveling property owner, which I will never reveal to anyone. That afternoon Kedrin took a cab back to the house and slept until her flight back to North Carolina. I never found out what the hell happened to her, but at least she didn’t get Chappaquiddicked.
That night I made myself a vodka cranberry and decided to finally watch Jaws for the first time.

I fell asleep before the end.

Do y’all ever feel like a plastic bag?

It was well into the evening on Monday when I finally set foot outside, confronting the strangeness of waking up after sleeping for 24 hours; after spending the twelve hours before that squeezing every last drop of serotonin from my brain; after spouting every last detail of my life story to a group of attentive, similarly altered listeners; after drink after drink after drink….

Everything seemed completely brand new, and not in the best of ways. Patrick had left the city the previous day while I was wallowing in my wreck of a room trying to invent a home remedy for insomnia. I didn’t know if it was the fact that summer had started to slip away, but the air smelled completely different. It smelled kinda like…fucks.

Oh, blah blah blah. We’ve all been here before, right? In that place where the party lasted too long (or ended too soon), the period of recovery has long outstayed its welcome and you’re still sitting there, a self-indulgent lame duck. But this, sans tea or shade, isn’t “Amphetamine Logic.” I don’t find these feelings remotely glamorous. I see no reason to give in to the bullshit of ~taking life seriously~,  mistaking the emotional repercussions of a long night for some epiphany on the ultimate truth of loneliness and failure. Ya just did too much drugs.

The thoughts of a fucked up person always sound so true and interesting because they’re always face to face with their mortality. Or maybe they think they are? Something about a death instinct and weakening life instincts which you can read about in superstar drug blogger Cat Marnell’s articles here, or here, or everywhere.

BUT if you, like me, have the luxury of not being a total addict and just want to have some fun, try to remember you ARE NOT GOING TO DIE AND/OR FAIL AT LIFE AND/OR WASTE AWAY WITH NO TRUE FRIENDS THAT REALLY GET U

You are young, you are not dead, everything is going to be fine.

Here are all the things you need to successfully cure a really shitty comedown. 

Water: You forget you need this, but you do. Like, really do. Imagine running a marathon and then guzzling a big ole jug of ocean water. That’s what partying does to your body. You might not feel like it and it might really suck but it’s AMAZING what throwing back three or four tall glasses of water can do to your morale. Helpful tip, if you have a headache or stomachache or just don’t feel thirsty, water at room temperature is a lot easier to drink than the cold stuff. Camelbacks are also good because by this time you will have regressed to a child-like state and won’t mind sucking a nipple.

Vitamins: There’s this crazy shit you can buy at the drug store called 5HTP that helps replenish some of the great stuff that great drugs suck out of your brain and body (like our beloved serotonin). It also makes you sleepy, which is going to be really helpful in your shitty state. But without getting into a bunch of science or whatever, there are other super normal things you can take like vitamin C and B complex (I actually read somewhere that if you take B12 the night you go out drinking it keeps you from having a hangover. But I’m not a doctor or anything). I have been known to take like 4 packs of Emergen-C which has a whole bunch of different shit in it and is also a good way to convince myself to drink water.

Marijuana: I don’t remember the last time I bought weed which is totally shameful. I actually spent most of the summer so un-stoned that I’d forgotten how great of a remedy it can be for most things.

Sleep: You will not feel normal again until you do this. In my case I had to take a promethazine and do it for about a day. Actually I’ve come to realize that most of my problems, party-related or not, have to do with being tired. Tiredness just makes you so annoyingly serious and who has time for that?

Get OUT of the house: Go for a walk. Get your blood flowing. Maybe even  get some food. See something other than the room where up until five minutes ago you were sure you were going to die.

Exercise, even if slightly: Stretching is a good way to cheat on this one. Stretching is the bomb.

Socialize: This one is about getting over yourself and realizing your problems are not that serious. Having a chat with someone other than your cat will make you feel less crazy and help you gain perspective. You’ll remember who you used to be before this nightmare.

and last but not least, Create limits for yourself: You need to know when enough is enough (in my experience this is somewhere between slightly more than enough and not quite too much). Nobody wants to come visit you in a hospital or look at your broken capillaries or have you ruin everything by dying. Let’s not lose any more good people. Things you will never see me do include crack, heroin, meth, and PCP (sorry Cat, u do u). I am also not super “into pills” or what have you because that just seems so ’08, and you should NEVER exchange sex for drugs (or vice versa, you creep). I’m not going to wag my finger at you if you flirt with guys so they buy you drinks. Who doesn’t do that? (Well, I don’t usually because I have a very narrow, almost invisible window between wanting to stab a guy in the face and actually liking them. By the time I figure out which one, the ‘pretending’ ship has sailed far, far away). I’m JUST saying that if you want your morning-afters to get any easier, think about the things you felt guilty about last time. Maybe you feel like an idiot for letting that guy suck your tit in exchange for a bump of coke because you were kind of being a huge idiot. But don’t be too hard on yourself. Some things, like bouncing around scantily clad and talking incessant nonsense to a group of ogling guys for four hours, should be met with a quick self deprecating eye-roll. If you do find yourself sitting around biting your nails trying to remember all the ridiculous things you said and thinking “they probably thought I was so stupid and selfish and slutty!” just remember that,

-If they did, so what?

-They were really fucked up too and probably more focused on trying to sleep with you.

-Stupid, selfish and slutty might be the look.

nuttin but a hairflip.

Hey, Could I Bum a House?

So today’s post is going to be outlined by a series of photographs. This is for all my illiterate hoes who need not be discounted, and for those of you who really want to get the full experience of last week’s nonsense. Just to give you a little backstory, I’m living in this weird/adorable nest/treehouse thing in northern Greenpoint right now (you can see photos on my flickr, or on that tab up there that says ‘photos’), but sometime in the next 24 hours my ‘sublessor’ (yeah, I’m a lawyer) is returning home which will effectively put me out on the street. For the purposes of earning street cred this will actually be very fulfilling for me, as I’ve always wanted to roam around the city with nothing but a backpack and an ipod nano (which I am inexplicably still carrying around despite having an iphone…probably my need to maintain a “quirky” and somewhat “ignorant” relationship with technology) and sleeping on the couches of cranky gay men everywhere.


I’ll be refilling those six suitcases I was telling you about for the rest of the night. Meanwhile my shit is EVERYWHERE and I figured I’d use some of it to help me finish the story of How Much Fun I Had That First Month in New York Before I Was Just Some Homeless Crackhead With an Internship.

(as you can see i am super organized and i give all the fucks in the world)

(some fucking plastic ass tupperware shit wrapped in a repurposed piece of garbage)

One of the first things you learn as a broke idiot in any city is that sometimes you’ve got to suck it up and bring your lunch from home.  Spending 10 dollars every day on a lox and cream cheese bagel (or 12 dollars on some Chipotle that’ll make you shit your pants) quickly becomes a luxury that you can only dream of one day affording and meanwhile those mashed potatoes and, like, scrambled eggs leftover from last night are starting looking gourmet as fuck. I realized I can spend $20 every couple of weeks at Trader Joe’s buying the bare minimum of produce and essential nutrients (a la beans and rice) and as long as I make it home at least once a day (a thing that has become increasingly rare) I don’t have to worry about throwing hella bills at a sack of trans fats just to survive. Sometimes you have to get creative. I literally just made a bowl of tuna, vegenaise, chick peas and paprika and ate it with pita bread (perhaps you think this is a low point but it was pretty damn delicious). Sadly, I haven’t been making it back to Greenpoint as much as I like, which explains why I’ve been shoplifting so much on the Upper West Side. You have to save money wherever you can, because you know as well as I do that as soon as the first cent drops in your bank account you’ll be ordering 40s of Ballantine and a personal large pizza to your room without batting an eye. Shit is costly, bruh.

(homeless women and men should always have the proper accoutrement for doin’ it on their person)

At this point you all know that I am very open about my sex life. For a second I considered that showing my ACTUAL BIRTH CONTROL PACKET (gasp!) on the internet was a little much. Then I remembered that at least 6 of my best friends growing up have pictures of their chunky newborns all over their facebook pages. I can do whatever the fuck I want. NOW, if you don’t want to have a baby–a perfectly respectable life choice for people of any age–it’s super important to keep your birth control at arm’s reach 100% of the time. Missing pills can not only get you pregnant, but it can make you have your period for an entire month (which can really ruin the reason you’re taking them in the first place, am I right?). Maybe taking my pill with a sip of lemon Four Loko outside of a bodega at 11 pm is not a good look, but if you can breast-feed in public (something I think is totally okay), I can make sure I don’t have some dude’s raggedy ass kid before I go to the club. This is what they mean by “drink responsibly,” right? And as for the condoms, you don’t have to explain to me your reason for not using them. Oh believe me, I get it…they’re a fucking pain in the ass. And if you’re getting regularly tested and you trust your partner, that’s a choice you fully have the right to make. I’m just saying–I’ve never had the Gonz but I hear it’s kinda gross. And I’m trying real hard to remember that.

(there is more bacteria on this dollar than around the rim of my toilet seat, I guarantee it.)

Oh look! A dollar! Like, a pretty substantial portion of my total savings (more than I care to admit)! The problem is, when I woke up and found this on the floor next to my bed I was kind of afraid to touch it. One low-key evening after drinking a bottle of Welch’s grape juice disguised as red wine, Reid, my new friend Kate and I went to The Woods for some shots. I still don’t really know how I feel about this place considering everyone is like 99% wack and the bathrooms are modeled after the waterboarding rooms in Guantanamo Bay. One time, though, I found a pair of awesome leather gloves on the sidewalk outside of the bar and I keep thinking I might find some more free stuff every time I go. Also anywhere that has a hut that sells grilled cheeses a stone’s throw from the dance floor is worth a look or two. This particular night, though, not one of the gangly losers in snapbacks was running to buy me a grilled cheese. Once it started pouring rain, the whole place turned into a sodden, rancid hellhole I couldn’t escape despite (or perhaps due to) the barrel of tequila I’d consumed. I can’t say I had a horrible time. The music was pretty good (Azealia Banks is the DJing equivalent of a free space at this point), and right before I left I found a dollar on the ground! This dollar. This dollar that I am now afraid to touch because it is actually covered in beer and mud and toilet water and probably poop. I don’t know exactly what my plan is for this guy, but don’t be surprised if later tonight I am literally…actually…washing a dollar in the fucking sink.

(some kind of playing card for a game i’m assuming is both very fun and kind of a waste of time–just smoke the shit, you know?)

I don’t know how this got in my purse. I believe I found it in the studio behind Reid’s apartment where, I kid you not, we pregamed for Anorexxxtapussy by chasing swigs of Patrick’s Georgi with my Four Loko. “Just put a little loko in the back of your throat and you can’t even taste it!” This night is a complete fucking blur. Once we arrived at sugar hill it was as if everyone was really distracted by something…but nothing was really happening. I think this is what it’s like to be completely wasted in a room full of strangers. Here are some pictures from that night.

(they call me lana del razorblades)

(reid is super into jezus)

(patrick giving his best gothic, but really he just looks like my uncle danny in the late 90s after he just took out the speedboat)


(get in the car. and don’t touch nothin’ SIT IN THE CAR)


(you really can’t let yourself be stinkin’)

I hate to say this is true, but for a good two…maybe three days after Anorexxxtapussy or whatever it’s called, I was wearing variations of the same outfit and trying not to smell like Bigfoot’s dead grandma in weather that was quickly approaching 100 degrees. During this time I decided to get really into “pajama goth,” which mostly just meant loose layers of fishnet, chiffon, and Rick Owens tanks I borrowed from Skye. This allowed me to move freely and comfortably while not really sweating all that much, but it’s nice to touch up yo face when you get a chance. You really never know when you might meet someone cute and idk, maybe they will be super into the “swamp thing” look, but I like to be prepared just in case.

You can plan all you want to take your chiffon out to new and exciting places, but you might just end up at the Standard anyway. That’s what happened last Sunday. Somehow our intoxication snowballed extra quickly that night. I really don’t know how things get so ratchet so fast.

(here is moe defying gravity. a clear resemblance to some acrobatics i pulled back in nc, pictured below)

(I have a college degree, btw)

(have you ever seen anything so beautiful in your entire life?)

(i am not actually peeing in this picture. some asshole threw a water balloon at me and knocked my pants down. what an asshole.)

(this is how you know you’ve had a good night)


(free shit from The View that i have yet to actually sample)

Believe it or not, about 6 hours after snapping that sad picture of Patrick on the toilet, I accompanied him to fill our free seats at The View (we have friends and family in relatively high places and that’s all I can say). The special guest was Jimmy Fallon which is why we got all these free goodies. All in all this experience was surreal and bizarre as fuck. My palms kept sweating a lot because I was thrown by being in the same room as Whoopi Goldberg, and also because I was about to drop dead from the after-effects of last night’s bottle service. This made it somewhat awkward for me when I ended up shaking her hand. Actually, the whole experience was about 50/50 awkward and totally rad.

(just chillin with some fellow viewers)

Other than all of this, the past week has been spent trying to find a place for me and my cute kittens to live. I’m doing reasonably well staying positive even though sometimes it’s hard not to have a tantrum when you’re on the J train at 9 am on a Saturday only to reach a roach motel that costs $800 a month. “HOW THE FUCK DO YOU EVEN SAY KOSCIUSZKO STREET” *screams through tears at a gentleman eating a churro who doesn’t speak a word of English*

I’ll keep you updated on what it’s like living on futons and eating popcorn for every meal. Right now I’m of the belief that you can totally be a fabulous, homeless badass. Let’s see how long this delusion lasts.

By the way, follow me on twitter @katstkat and on instagram @catdookie for constant updates. I promise I won’t depress you.

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

The Perfect Valentine’s Outfit

Happy Early Valentine’s Day, you little eager, lonely, depressed fashionistas. While I was (or wasn’t) trolling all the best style blogs for that perfect outfit to *WoW* your date on Valentine’s Day, I remembered that many of us don’t have a handsome, dapper young gent waiting to take us to the world’s nicest restaurant next Tuesday. Instead, some of us have a wonderful opportunity; that one day a year where it is perfectly acceptable to feel sorry for yourself, just like you do every other day of the year, loudly, publicly, and unabashed. With these undoubtedly exceptionally-beautiful-and-intelligent-but-misunderstood people in mind, I have designed the perfect outfit to take your pitiful self-indulgence to new and improved heights.

1. A Velour Tracksuit. I’m really not sure when these went out of style, and I never really complained when they did. It was probably around the time that every photo of Pregnant Britney doing something trampy, schizo and completely awesome also featured one of her custom velvet sweat sets. But let’s think long and hard about Britney for a minute. Maybe she had it right. She’d been unlucky in love in the past and the fame was getting to her, and by god she wanted a Big Mac. So here she came, buckin’ all the stereotypes and expectations and said “You know what, I’m gonna marry Kevin Federline, we’ll all wear tracksuits at the wedding, and I will eat a Big Mac. Every day for the next six years until I’m ready to come back on the scene and show everyone that my country ass can be chill as hell and still sell millions of records.” Maybe, just maybe this is our chance to show the world that you don’t have to be Crazy Britney to not give a fuck. To the nearest TJ Maxx!

2. A Paper Bag on Your Head. When you wake up Tuesday morning after crying yourself to sleep over the Valentine’s Facebook status that your ex posted about his new girlfriend, you will not do your hair, you will not put makeup on, you won’t even bother to wipe the Nutella and peanut butter from your soon-to-be-double chin. What’s the point? You have been strong enough to postpone your suicide for at least the next couple of hours, and that deserves the reward of complete and total disregard for your appearance. You honestly don’t even care if someone sees how you look! But you probably don’t want to be spotted in that velour tracksuit by anyone who actually knows you, so the bag will come in handy any time you absolutely must set foot outside. Which brings us to number three.

3. A Lobster Bib. Valentine’s Day may just be your hungriest day of the year. Since you’ll be waiting to buy yourself three boxes of Russell Stover’s until they go on sale Wednesday at Walgreens, treat yourself to the next best thing that anyone can: a trip to Red Lobster. Have you even heard of cheddar bay biscuits? If I am not mistaken, those bitches are bottomless and will go smashingly well with that cup of butter that comes with your seafood platter. Heart attacks for everybody!

4. A Novelty Flask. If you can get through this entire day without a thimble of cheap vodka, I applaud you. But the rest of us don’t have the conviction or wherewithal to be as boring as you. We’re going to need something potent and portable to take with us on our journey, and the only way to do that is, of course, in style. Trashy, ironic, self-deprecating, hot pink style.

5. A Cat. I am a firm believer that you need one of these every day of the year, but I understand that some of you have allergies or are not privy to the superiority of the feline species. But let’s make one thing clear; a cat will not make you feel especially loved on Valentine’s Day because it truly appreciates and loves you for you. Cat’s exist in nature to show us that true love is not unconditional. Instead, it’s something you receive as coercion for sharing your leftover shellfish. And that is beautiful.

6. A Copy of First Wives Club. This is the ultimate single bitch guide to life. While sure, they’re pushing fifty and still scheming and holding onto the past, watching Goldie Hawn scream “I AM NOT A DRUNK” while flipping her amazing hair around in a neurotic fit is nothing short of comforting.

7. Bald Eagle Bedroom Slippers. Patriotism! I’m joking, nothing is more upsetting to me than the concept of national paraphernalia. But puffy slippers are kind of a must and these are a pretty ridiculous concept I can get behind. Nothing says “I’m the shit!” like stomping around with your foot in a stuffed animal. …or is that “I’ve given up!” I can’t remember.

8. That Naked Picture of Adam Levine. This classic photo is where you will find the closest thing to ecstasy tonight, unless you take actual ecstasy which I don’t really frown upon either. I suggest dimming the lights and using your imagination to travel to a place far, far away where you can be serenaded by his buzzing falsetto to the utmost peak of pleasure. Or you can buy a vibrator, which pretty much works no matter what rock star you’re looking at.

9. A Shovel. Maybe it’s a metaphorical shovel for burying your desperation and loneliness in the back of your mind so you can go about your life empowered and unfazed. Maybe it’s a real shovel to help you dig your own grave in the parking lot of your ex-boyfriend’s apartment. We’re all searching for the tools to help us move up and move on. However you choose to do that is entirely up to your level of sanity.

The moral of the story here is, don’t put so much pressure on yourself this Valentine’s day. Aim low! I mean really, who needs a sexual partner or someone to cuddle with when you can smear lipstick all over your face in the mirror of your bedroom with a mouthful of fried calamari. I’m sure all those greedy hitched-up bitches would be jealous, I don’t care how big their Harry Winston is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to go wipe away my tears while laughing hysterically.