The Pains and Pleasures of Moving, Moving On

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The day my two and half year long relationship ended I also happened to have an improv show. It was my 401 class show at The Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre in Chelsea, and it was a semi-big deal, if only to me and my classmates. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to perform. I had, after all, just had the proverbial rug ripped out from under life as I knew it. It was the lump-in-throat stage of being dumped, and I was feeling a different emotion about it every moment: anger, frustration, that thing where you go “pfft” and roll your eyes that’s supposed to make you seem flippant but is really an obvious trick for holding back tears. Could I really make someone laugh right now? Please.

I considered bailing for about a minute before I got real with myself. I knew there was no way this would help my situation. I would stay home wallowing in my tiny apartment, OUR tiny apartment, and then afterwards I’d kick myself eternally for wimping out and being a fucking quitter. Yeah, the show was going to be really hard and possibly humiliating, but so had every single day since I started doing comedy. I decided to face it and step up 2 the streets. At least then I wouldn’t have let myself down.

Much to my surprise and delight, not only did I not burst into tears or throw up on stage, I may have had my best show to date. I got laughs. REAL, non-pity laughs, I think! An achievement that left me with such an inflated, manic high that immediately afterwards I had 4 drinks and proceeded to hit on someone I decided on a whim to have a crush on. For no reason whatsoever. Just to prove to myself I had the balls, I guess.

I spent the next few weeks on that exact vibe, a combination of intense flirtiness and creative energy. I was enrolled in the final core sketch course at UCB at the same time, and my indie improv team Hot Cheese was just getting on its feet. Alex and I were putting finishing touches on a script we’d been working on for months. And all this was on the side as I maintained my day-gig managing a rapidly expanding design studio. Between that and the impending drama of my lease (too expensive for one) ending on April 30, there was no time to really feel sorry for myself. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly spent a few of those cold, not-spring-at-all days in April standing under an umbrella listening to “Same Ol’ Mistakes” off Rihanna’s Anti and its Tame Impala counterpart on repeat, nursing my moody energy. But almost instantly after my breakup–and I mean this–the feeling of what it meant to be ME and only ME, pre-relationship, rushed back and filled me with motivation. Not to return to the person I’d been before, but to remember her, and fuse her essence with my new, positive transformations to form one mega bad bitch.

“You’re taking it so well,” everyone kept saying. And yeah, I guess I was. In fact, I was a little concerned about it. Shouldn’t I have been more devastated? I had certainly relied on my ex for support through the stress of the day-to-day, and now I was alone. Why wasn’t I feeling the void? The truth is, I was. But with the void, other things opened up, too. I got my alone time back. I could be more impulsive. There was one less person expecting things of me, and while those expectations were welcomed when we were in love, a part of me felt free. I could focus on myself and transform into whatever person I am destined to become without the fear of derailing a relationship I depended on. The decision to be alone was made for me, but I already knew it was the right one.

I took myself out to lunches, read fashion magazines, listened to new music — things that please me and make me happy that I had just stopped doing in the past. No one can really say why I’d stopped. I wasn’t feeling inspired, I guess, but now I was back. I felt energy and motivation and success on the horizon. There were still nights that I felt lonely and desperate and totally lost, but I knew the feeling was temporary. I kept thinking, what would I tell another girl going through this same thing? I wrote little mantras on post-its and put them by my mirrors in the house. I was absolutely dedicated to staying strong and focused. And I knew I would be okay.

It was time for some self care. Some radical catharsis. I had to clean up my life as I moved forward.

The first step was to watch all the shows on my DVR that my ex didn’t like, such as episodes of the smash hit Oxygen reality show Funny Girls from last spring (a heavily produced show that takes awesome female comedians and pits them against each other making them seem petty and ridiculous. Extremely relatable content.) One of the stars, Stephanie Simbari, is a favorite of mine for obvious reasons (vocal fry, tattoos, phone by her toilet) and through googling her I found her wellness podcast That’s So Retrograde, which takes every new age trend and philosophy you can think of and white-girls the shit out of them. Right up my alley since I’d been DIYing my self help lately and could use a little more mindfulness in my life. After all, 5 planets were about to be retrograde and I could only take so much emotional scrambling. Hey, nothing a bag of crystals and a turmeric shot can’t fix!

Truthfully, I’m not one to take any of that stuff too literally. But what I could get behind was a good old fashioned form of emotional cleansing: getting rid of shit.

After neatly folding all of my ex’s forgotten items and placing them in a trash bag for his friend to retrieve, the next step was to tackle all the physical baggage in my apartment I’d been hoarding for the past several months. Perhaps I’ve mentioned before that our apartment was tiny. Like, sailboat cabin tiny. Janitor’s closet tiny. Litter box tiny. So last summer my friend Hannah helped me go through all my things and weed out the stuff I didn’t want or need that was taking up too much space in my life. We put them in bags and labeled them “donate” or “sell.” I’d been collecting vintage clothes for over a decade, and those that I didn’t lose in my 2009 house fire or pass along to better homes were either valued items I wore constantly or, I thought, possibly worth a little bit of money. Like, for example, this super soft Bill Blass maroon denim jacket straight out of the early 90s that I never wore because maroon just SO isn’t my color. It brings out all these red tones in my skin, you know?

The thing was, I never did make it to Goodwill with the donate bag or start my own vintage denim Etsy site that year. What a surprise! Instead, all that crap remained in bags, stuffed below the clothing racks I was using as a makeshift closet. Collecting dust and so, so much cat hair.

I truly am lucky to have a friend like Hannah, because her idea of a HELLA LIT weekend is helping me finally get rid of all my baggage. We dragged suitcases of dusty clothes to Beacon’s Closet, where to my surprise I made about $80 selling about 1% of my crap. And while some of it was undoubtedly undervalued, I felt a huge weight lift as I got rid of all that clutter almost effortlessly. I felt so light! So free! So free, in fact, that I decided to spend those 80 dollars right away at the club.

When you finally remember dick exists after going through a breakup, it hits you like a fucking freight train. There is no feeling like it.  And that weekend my thirst level was worse than the time I mixed ecstasy, coke and vodka at an LA warehouse party, stayed out til lunch the next day and walked back to the hotel in 90 degree heat. And that was pretty bad.

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“I just want to FUUUUCK” I remember yelling at the top of my lungs from Moe and Emma’s couch that weekend.

“So get a Tinder.”

Oh yeaaaah, Tinder! I hadn’t used it since it first became popular in 2013 and not long after that I was in a relationship. I’d done such a good job of stuffing any sexual desire for another person so far in the back of my mind that I had forgotten how easy it is to get laid in this city!

…or maybe not.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. God, all these guys were such Barneys. Ooh – a match! Hmm, I’ll keep swiping. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.

That night we went out to a club that shall not be named, not just because it fucking sucks, but because I am about to put one of their employees on blast.

I’m really not opposed to going out to shitty clubs when I’m tryna fuck. I figure the douchiest bars are often where you find the Young, Dumb & Hung boys, who have enough money to pay for the uber to their place and then your uber home. But I was having no such luck. All the guys at this particular locale were kinda short, and if I’m being honest, seemed like the breed of “bro” that’s hiding in the closet behind Carolina Basketball tshirts posting headless photos on Grindr with the caption “Masc for Masc.”

“DOES ANYONE HERE ACTUALLY HAVE SEX WITH FEMALES??”

And then I spotted him. A bartender, 6’3 with tattoos and a babyface. I gave Reid, my wingman for the evening, a mischievous grin.

“It’s on.”

I went up and ordered a drink and our eyes locked immediately. And for the next hour and a half we chatted it up, made each other laugh, flirted shamelessly, blushed and made plans for when he got off work.

Then the bar got busy, so I hung to the side and gossiped with Reid, peering at this cutie from the corner of my eye. He returned carrying shots for both of us.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, smirking guiltily.  “I can’t come home with you tonight.”

“And why is that?” I asked, thinking he must be messing with me.

“Because…I’m married.”

DA FUUUK? I’m pretty sure the Mr. Krabs meme was invented specifically for situations like these. I was so annoyed! I spent two hours talking to this bozo! That’s two hours of flirting time I will never get back. And now it was late and I was going to have to have sex with one of these gay guys. God damn it!

I spent the rest of the evening throwing myself at a muscular dude who “had to work in the morning” but still offered to give me a ride home. I mean, I accepted, of course.

I figured it was time to start setting up some Tinder dates. The first one was with a drummer who wanted to take me to a comedy show. When we got there, although he was nice, it was abundantly clear that our personalities were incompatible. Coincidentally, another one of my Tinder matches was on a date two seats down from us. I tried my best to hide my face and get through the show, which by the way was really good. So good, actually, that I wanted to stay and talk to the comics when it was over. Just not with my date. I walked him home and said goodnight, then walked back to the club to see what was up. They were all gone, so I went to the bar across the street for a drink and ended up hooking up with the incredibly short stranger next to me who was surprisingly very well-endowed.

My next Tinder date was with a guy who became attached very quickly and yelled at me for not deleting the app after our first hookup.

My Tinder date after that was as a guest on a podcast. I literally went to this dude’s studio (his apartment), met him for the first time, and within minutes was doing a live show and first date simultaneously. It was definitely an interesting experience, but didn’t work out romantically whatsoever.

Listen to the trainwreck here!

Somehow, between all these dates with randos, I managed to squeeze in some apartment hunting. Although, as I’m sure you know, finding an apartment in New York is less like a hunt and more like a wild friggin’ goose chase. Just like every other time I’ve moved in this city, I had about 6 different apps and 20 email tabs open at once for the first two weeks of April, using everything I could to find a one-bedroom in my budget in North Brooklyn. Fat fuckin’ chance. The only places I found that could afford near me were a totally run down shack of an apartment that looked like my Great Grandaddy’s garage (complete with a large, paint-splattered basin in the “kitchen” that served as bathroom sink as well) and an attic apartment with a ceiling that slanted so low I could only stand up in half the unit. I thought I had a lead on a converted loft above a funeral home in Ridgewood. That’s right, above a real life funeral home, where they literally take dead humans and pump them with formaldehyde and place their bodies in wooden boxes for people to cry over them. It turned out I couldn’t afford it.

Finally (by the suggestion of one of my Tinder dates, actually), I decided to check out Crown Heights. I had been avoiding moving south in Brooklyn since I’d always lived off the L train, and I wanted to be a short distance to my brother who does as well. But I had a few friends in the Crown and had spent a little time there, so I figured it was worth a shot. I set up a few showings.

The morning of my Crown Heights viewings began with a 1 BR on Utica that, upon arriving by uber, I was able to identify via the man emptying his bladder on the front step. Once inside, I was met with other horrors. The smell of natural gas in the hallway, cracking brown tile floors, an tiny, crusty bathroom easily 3 decades old. How was this a mere $100/month below the TOP of my budget, which I believed to be very reasonable? What part of Crown Heights was I even in? New York real estate had officially lost its mind. As I was leaving that showing feeling very down, I received a text from a strange number. I was used to this as I’d been harassed these past few weeks, not by brokers with apartments for ME, but those trying to rent out my current place. I must have scowled at 50 Nooklyn agents that month as they invaded my space day after day. This time, though, the text was from a broker I’d reached out to about a cute little studio in Bed Stuy. I had scheduled a viewing with her for right after this one, and was very excited to check it out.

“Sry. Landlord has keys and won’t be back til 4pm. Can u meet then?”

It was 10:30.

I did want to go back home to Greenpoint, a good 40 minute ride on the B43 or $20 uber away, so I walked over to Brad and Monday’s to mope and scroll through Craigslist.

AS FATE WOULD HAVE IT, an ad was posted while I was sitting on their couch for a large studio with high ceilings and exposed brick walls, just at the top of my budget not 15 minutes walking distance from Brad’s place. I called the broker and screamed that I wanted to meet him ASAP. Of course, just as I was about to head out, it started pouring down rain. I didn’t care. I grabbed a broken umbrella from behind their couch and marched my way to this gorgeous mini-loft.

When I arrived, I couldn’t believe how nice it was compared to the utter shitholes I’d seen for this same amount. Was I being played? No time to find out — I was so excited and relieved to find something actually livable that I immediately signed my life away on a rental application. I waited for the B43 in the freezing cold rain with my broken umbrella, smiling.

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That was in early April, so it wasn’t time to worry about the moving process just yet. The weather was about to get nice, I could feel it, so I attempted to put my worries aside and have a good time for a few days. Sarah visited from Asheville and I spent some time with her being at least somewhat carefree, taking tequila shots and eating all the food. I continued going on dates, random hookups with cute strangers I never wanted to see again, and even catchup hangs with some boys I knew pre-relationship. It was an interesting feeling, all this freedom and fun flooding my life again after my domestic lull these past 2 years.

Then Lemonade came out. The beginning of the end of my recovery after breaking up. I had wanted to see it air for the first time on HBO, initially because I was excited for the bangers. What I didn’t expect was something so moving, so important, so visually captivating. How it allowed me to express the emotions I felt like I was supposed to feel after breaking up, but that I hadn’t let myself experience. Insecurity, demanding to be respected, not giving a fuck, being free, working hard, moving forward, but still being in love with love at the end of the day. Ugh, it was life changing. And beyond my own experience, beyond how it related to me specifically, Lemonade is such an important work socially and politically that the world desperately needed. I mean, it’s just…everything.

I finally had a reason to stop listening to Anti.

The next week, I packed up all my things, hired movers and settled in my new spot. I was so happy that it felt wrong. I was comfortable in my own home, not even scared to live alone in an unfamiliar neighborhood like I thought I’d be. I felt liberated, or as liberated as you can be with half your income tied up in the place you reside.

That’s when, out of nowhere, my body alerted me of its needs. In the rain of the first week of May, I slipped on the subway steps on the way into work. Nothing major. I caught myself on the railing. But when I moved my arm to do so, I somehow threw out my entire neck and completely lost all range of movement. Strange – I hadn’t felt any tension in my back recently even though I’m used to having bunch of gnarly knots. I guess there was some tension after all, and I’d been holding it in, not noticing.

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I spent that day on the couch at work with ice on my back, and for the next week I couldn’t turn my head or look down or bend over. Cleaning the litter box was a very profane affair. I was a robot at Reid’s birthday party and during Hot Cheese’s first official improv show. Sleeping was even worse. I decided to try acupuncture, which was very zen or whatever but did not completely solve my issue. I tried muscle relaxers, which only made me loopy and confused enough to give my number to someone who hit on me in a Duane Reade. I was useless and smelled like Icy Hot for ten days.

It’s funny how that happens. You get so busy with life, chasing dreams, fulfilling obligations and stuffing fun experiences into every free moment leftover, that you don’t even realize what you’re putting yourself through. I thought my mind was okay, but my body hated me.

Once I got back into working order, I decided to pump the brakes. What I really needed to do was sit down, have some chill, and watch a Kardashian marathon on my brand new cable box. I needed to love myself, take things slow, be patient and enjoy the long awaited warm weather.

So I stopped for a moment, took a good look at my life and all the things I’ve accomplished. And I realized I was no longer in pain, physically or emotionally.

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Living for a Living

Living for a Living

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I swear to god I’m gonna make being an adult look cute if it kills me.

When I was little I never understood why parents complained about being adults.

“You’ll see,” they’d say. “Being a child is a luxury. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

At the time it felt like my problems were being ignored. I couldn’t even choose what to eat or when to go to bed, and what’s worse, I was forced to go to a school every day where I had to deal with the cut-throat social politics of elementary school girls. This was no luxury, I thought. What were these people talking about?

Now that I’m older, of course, I see what they meant. There’s the obvious fact of having more responsibility, people depending on you for things, worrying about money, about living up to expectations, about health, about death. “Okay,” I thought, about a year into the whole adulthood thing. “This kinda sucks too.”

When I was in sixth grade I had a particularly hard time adjusting. My mother had just gotten remarried and I had moved into a big house with a combined family, many members of which were not too keen on sharing anything with me, oxygen included. Middle school was off to a rough start. I was still naively eager for a certain crowd of kids to want to be friends with me, which they didn’t. A gifted child but a terrible listener, I had a hard time following directions and would often fall behind in class. Not to mention my body was changing. I was wearing sports bras from Limited Too in a children’s size 16. I was standing silently outside a circle of kids while they laughed at jokes I didn’t get. I was copying other people’s math homework because I’d managed to place into the advanced classes without ever really learning my multiplication tables. And I was desperately hoping it would all be over soon.

One night my dad called while I was doing some homework after school.

“Dad!” I squealed. “You’ll never believe it! Today I wished that school would go by fast, and it did!” 

“Mm,” he mumbled, the same way he had when I’d told him I thought I could see air when I was six years old. “Don’t wish your life away, kiddo.”

By this time, I had already heard about the problems my dad had with his eyes when he was a kid. I knew he’d had trouble reading, and that school was especially hard for him in the elementary and junior high years. He’d lived in Taiwan for a year when he was 12, and when he came back to the States he had to repeat the seventh grade. I knew he wouldn’t do middle school over again if you paid him. So why was he being so protective of my time?

I realize now that two things happen when you get a little older: time goes by faster, and less seems to change.

This is why two months have passed since I’ve last written. It’s why I didn’t notice it had been so long, and why I haven’t had much to say. It’s also why, at age 52, my father was telling me to relish the days where I had something he didn’t. My whole life laid out in front of me, years to decide who I was going to be, the freedom to make mistakes that wouldn’t have long term detriment or legal implications, and the absence of that underlying feeling all adults secretly have, that we’re squandering our potential, stressing ourselves to the limit, careening towards our end of days just hoping and praying we’ll have something to show for it. It’s true what they say, that youth is wasted on the young. What good is all the time in the world if you have no concept of time to begin with?

A lot has happened in these last two months. And they’ve been big, important steps for me, but just your run-of-the-mill adulty stuff. James and I got our own place in Greenpoint in a gutted out church, with the fixtures and the central air and the deep tub and the roof and the outdoor space we always wanted. The place is small but we’re happy, and the cats are happy, and we don’t mind giving some things away. Even with the reduced square footage, our rent went up quite a bit. So I needed to take my job hunt more seriously and really put my nuts to the wall to find work.

After putting myself out there and getting rejected so many times in a row that I couldn’t tell if I was job hunting or speed dating, I finally found a place that wanted me. I actually didn’t think I was right for the job, and I wasn’t terribly qualified either, but they seemed to think I was capable enough and hired me right away. Two months later, I think I have a handle on things. I have benefits and paid time off and a healthy sleep schedule. I go to the same salad bar every day during my lunch hour and listen to podcasts while I eat alone. I meet James on the platform at Union Square every day at 6:45, go home, make dinner, watch Netflix, maybe write a little, and go to bed. It is so delightfully, wonderfully, magically boring. And so far, I really love it.

I went to The Gap the other day and bought button-downs. Can you believe this? I’m an assistant at a design studio, so I don’t have to wear heels to work or get my hair blown out every day, but I can’t exactly go dressed like Malibu Barbie. Yeah it’s a bummer, but I also don’t mind being taken seriously. I just want to do good work, make my money, and get out of there. Part of growing up is knowing that you don’t have to show your entire personality, all your tastes and ambitions, every shade of who you are and want to be, to every person you encounter. At this point in my life, I think I’ll get farther if I hide a few things from the people who sign my checks. And the thing about selling out is, it makes your apartment so much nicer. Plus, idk, The Gap has some nice stuff.

The hard part of having the grown up day job is, well, there are a few. The first is getting out of bed every morning (I have no suggestions for this). The second is making sure you can manage not to turn into a sloppy, depressed mom who has given up on looking cute (this is a personal problem I’m trying to solve by keeping dry shampoo in my desk, eating fucking salads, and forcing myself to go to one social event a month). The third is staying focused on what you really want to do, remembering the difference between your actual two-year goal and what you wrote on your employee evaluation. But probably the hardest part is assuring yourself that how you make your money, and how much of it you have, isn’t what defines you. That the small achievements really do matter. And that we still have time, no matter what age, to make our dreams come true.

And in the meantime, well, you might find yourself at The Gap. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Fake Housewife in New Jersey (and, ultimately, Queens)

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Last we spoke I was near-homeless and knee-deep in the bullshit of finding a new apartment. In the past six weeks, while lying to you about possible blog updates (I prefer to think of it as “teasing”) I managed to snag a place, find a roommate, and embark upon the treacherous journey that is Moving and Decorating in New York. But first, I partied.

After dying my hair black and appropriately deciding to fill in my eyebrows the same color every day, it was only natural that I release my inner Italian Housewife (I’m 0% Italian, but who’s counting) and give in to that overwhelming urge to visit New Jersey that I’ve been suppressing all my life. That’s right–I’d been living in Brooklyn for almost two years and had not yet set foot in the state too good to pump its own gas. By now, it was eating away at my soul. If I didn’t get to Jersey soon I was sure I’d be consumed by a FOMO so strong it would make even the toughest steroid-free Guido shed a tear.

Truthfully I had never considered going to Jersey because I never had a good reason, until my good friend Steph invited me to her old stomping grounds, Morristown, to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Even though I should have been looking for apartments and preparing to move out in 14 days it felt like I didn’t have that good of a reason to say no, so I agreed to venture west (east? south? Where TF is Jersey anyway?) on the NJ transit with a backpack full of bronzer, body glitter and a green feather boa that kept getting stuck in the zipper.

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New Jersey! It’s just like us! I went to college in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, a small town with cute little main streets sprinkled with bars that on holidays become infested with hoards of inebriated youths. To really make it feel like an authentic college experience, the first bouncer I encountered declared my out of state ID a fake and threatened to take it and call the cops. At first I thought he was flattering me–didn’t he notice that faint wrinkle between my 24-year-old eyebrows that I’ve been hallucinating lately? But alas, we were forced to cut our losses and walk 12 whole feet to enter an identical establishment across the street.

Three beers, two jello shots, a series of Fireball shots and a lethal amount of EDM later, I found myself wandering the streets of Morristown alone. At one point I climbed a fire escape and was escorted down by the cops (luckily they were everywhere that night to protect me from myself). Steph found me in a Blimpie, some blocks away from our original location, shamelessly eating a footlong around 2 AM. The next morning we had burgers and disco fries for breakfast and Cold Stone for lunch. I decided New Jersey agrees with me, as does any place that encourages mass consumption of junk food and alcohol. America: I like it.

When I returned to the city it was back to my search for a hidden paradise in a sea of shitass craigslist posts. I was sifting through ads during down time at work when my old roommate, Natalia, sent me a link to a 2BR apartment in Ridgewood, newly renovated, with a backyard and everything. The price was right, the location was right, the size was right…all I had to do was sign a lease and find a roommate. That night I visited two apartments: one, for the same price, was in Bushwick proper and about the size of a shoebox. The other is the one I now call home. I signed an application in the rain outside of a Chase bank at 10 PM, and went home to “celebrate,” that is, eat a burrito in bed.

With the move-in date looming and one empty room to fill, I continued to pour my desperate heart out on facebook and craigslist, imploring people to give me their money, live with my cats and stay out of my face. At the last possible second, the time it seems everything tends to happen in New York whether it be finding a job, a place or a will to live, I received a craigslist email from the perfect candidate: a wine retailer from, of all places, Chapel fucking Hill.

Then came the challenge of decorating. Since my friends Beth and Megan’s housewarming party in their adorable, gigantic, affordable Bushwick 2BR where I overheard every guest whispering plans to murder them both and steal their digs, it has become my mission to adorn my dwelling in such a way that not only pleases me aesthetically but also fills my loved ones with such jealousy that they must fight the urge to end my life then methodically dispose of my body and take my place.

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April has come and gone, spring is technically here, and so far I have done my best to settle in. Between an endless series of nightmare-inducing phone calls to various utility companies (seriously, endless. I have to call Verizon again tomorrow), my improv classes at Upright Citizens Brigade (I started again!), and my actual job, I’ve managed to paint two rooms, get furniture, electricity and wifi in all of them, gas on my stove, hot water in my shower, holes filled in my floors, a freakin television with actual surround sound (!!!), and a few shreds of my sanity back one day at a time. And I could never have done it alone. From Winston and Reid helping me load and unload a Uhaul in the rain and record time, to Hannah teaching me in the middle of the night how to paint a room, to my dad driving a trailer full of furniture all the way up the east coast with his brand new puppy in tow, not to mention Natalia finding this apartment online in the first place…this was not a feat I recommend for those with shallow pockets who walk alone.

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To find out who your real fans are, see how many of them still read your blog after you don’t post for six weeks. To find out who your real friends are, move.

 

Cheap Thrills

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This coming Saturday is my half birthday. Six months from that day I will turn 25, and though I see the flaws in weighing the value of my life in relationship to my age (“nothin but a number” and whatnot), I still allow my choices to be influenced by a timeline, however vague. Like, such as, my decision to not be poor anymore, leave thankless production grunt work behind, and take a full time job in the Hair and Beauty Industry. Along with that new job comes a higher budget, and higher standards for standards of living. On March 1 I put in my 30 days notice at The Chokey (my current place) and IF ALL GOES WELL I will find a studio in my area (that is, MY VERY OWN APARTMENT to share with Kos & Gon, of course) for the low low price of a lot of my money per month. A risk, I know, but one I am willing to take because I’m tired and I need my space, and in the words of Soo-Jin on Girls a couple episodes ago, “We’re old ladies. It’s gross.”

So far the search has been something of an emotional roller coaster. Starting last weekend I spent every minute of my free time (with the exception of some events you’ll hear about in a minute) scouring craigslist and various realty websites for the perfect property. And then…I found it. A studio in Ridgewood smack on the nose of my budget, totally renovated with a swaggy kitchen and brand new appliances, not too far from the trains or my current neighborhood on a quiet residential street. I was beyond excited. I could already see it: cute little dinner parties with my friends sitting on bar stools eating corn on the cob or some shit, Kos n Gonny basking in the sunlight from my gigantic bay windows, having enough space to put the litterbox more than 6 inches from where I sleep at night…It honestly seemed too good to be true. I spent the week frantically trying to get in touch with listing agents and brokers from the realty company so I could set an appointment to view the place, and even walked to the realty offices in Bed-Stuy in 25 degree weather one night after work to preemptively fill out an application, put down a (thankfully refundable) deposit, and take the studio off the market. On the Friday before my viewing I was on the verge of snapping Office Space style on the printer/scanner at work as I tried to copy and email the closing agent all my past rent check receipts, pay stubs, letters of employment and guarantor information. I wasn’t about to let this apartment slip between my fingers. If you’ve ever looked for a place to live in the New York area, you know how stressful the process can be. I’m not flat out admitting that I’ve even considered going all FoFiles Arsenic Style on lease holders in my area and then fully exercising my squatters rights…but I’m not denying it either.

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Then Saturday happened. It was the day I’d been waiting for. I had an appointment to visit the apartment at 1 that afternoon, so Hannah and Winston met me at my place at 12:40 to make the 20 minute walk up to Ridgewood and seal the deal. It was a beautiful day, 50 degrees and sunny, the first of its kind this season. And I had a spring in my step. As we walked up Bleecker Street and crossed from Brooklyn to Queens, the Bushwick noise just fell away. Suddenly I was in a quaint tree-lined neighborhood and my head was in the clouds. I could swear I heard birds chirping, “Welcome Kathryn! Welcome to your home!”

When the landlords, a nice couple and their two adorable youngsters, opened the front door to the building, I was like “This couldn’t possibly be more charming.” Then I saw the room. It was just like the pictures. Better, even. Everything was brand spanken new and clean. I’m pretty sure the tub was audibly beckoning me to sit in it, or maybe I was having auditory hallucinations brought on by overwhelming idealism. The nice man even said, “We’ll be painting before you move in so choose any color you like.” Say whaaat? Why do I have so many choices? Why doesn’t this feel seedy and dirty and rip-offy like every other time I’ve ever looked at an apartment in my life? Is this a trick?

That’s when I remembered I had one question left to ask.

“Oh yeah, I meant to mention, I have a cat.” (I didn’t say two cats because they are basically the same and I didn’t want to make this more difficult for myself).

Suddenly my ears were brought back to reality. The couple spoke my fate in unison.

“Oh no. No pets allowed. No exceptions.”

W-wha? My heart sank like the Tower of Terror ride at Disney World. No exceptions? What if I pay extra? What if I give you my first born?

Apparently the woman is deathly allergic, and though I had a hard time understanding her broken English, I could make out the word “hospital” in her explanation of dander-related symptoms. I was actually holding back tears. And then I got sassy.

“Well it didn’t say that on the website orrr I wouldn’t have come all the way out here [anxious laughter] [eye-roll].” I pursed my lips as my broker apologized, and hung my head all the way down Wyckoff to the taco factory to eat my feelings and guzzle a Mexican Coke or two. It helped.
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The worst part was breaking the news to all my friends to whom I’d prematurely bragged about my future digs. I should have known better.
IMG_6448So I’m back on the prowl. I have a showing of my second choice today at 6:30, which would still be pretty great. But I’m not getting my hopes up. We Virgos tend to lose our shit when things don’t go as planned (but my dreamy Pisces moon gets me in trouble every time…sigh).

The last few weeks haven’t been all work and no play. For instance, I found out how good the show Scandal is and promptly watched the whole first season on Netflix. I think subconsciously, or maybe consciously, I was looking for something to pick up where House of Cards left off, so I chose another drama about wack-ass politicians and the mistresses and journalists they victimize (and vice versa). If you’re late like me, the basic premise is Olivia Pope (played by the hypnotizing Kerry Washington) leads a group of renegade attorneys in solving/handling/covering up the District’s most salacious political scandals, blah blah blah, drama ensues. I wouldn’t go in expecting the sophisticated dialogue and plot intricacies of the Kevin Spacey vehicle, but if you’re looking for the compelling melodrama of Shonda Rhimes’ other hit Grey’s Anatomy with a dash of legal jargon spelled out for you in layperson’s terms, well hey! That’s what this is! (In the pilot one of the characters in the ensemble boldly declares to the team’s skittish newcomer  “Olivia Pope does not cry!” Olivia Pope then proceeds to cry in every following episode. That sort of thing.)

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Belting “Torn” with bestie Moe Dabbagh has been a major highlight of Pisces Season

As far as weekends go, I’ve been making a concerted effort to get out more despite the weather being mostly unfriendly these last few weeks and how sore my legs have been after 10 hour workdays. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my real life hang sesh and subsequent overdose of Twitterfriend young @J_Face. A few weekends ago I was bombarded by iMessages from J in a group chat imploring–nay–commanding us to hang out with them. Because I’d been waiting for this day since birth and I also hadn’t done anything fun outside the confines of my bedsheets in a week or so, I agreed to meet them for some day drinking and a some fun touristy activities. After we met up in south BedStuy, we hit up a Dunkin Donuts for some stealth mixers (“We’ll take a coke. No, not a bottle a fountain coke. Okay well can you give us a cup? No, a plastic cup. Fine, we’ll take a styrofoam coffee cup whatever thanks have a good day! Jesus.”) we managed to find our way to the Brooklyn Bridge right at sunset, something I think every New York resident is supposed to have done at some point. I hadn’t yet, as the BK Bridge is located between one neighborhood I never go to and another I’m only ever in to see my gynecologist.

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I find I appreciate my city more and have the most fun when visitors are in town. The daily grind can be pretty exhausting, and the romance of the city can be dampened by how stressful and loud it is to live here. Commutes, especially in the winter, are dealt with rather than enjoyed. If you’re pinching pennies like me, going out to eat can hardly be justified (unless you’re also delusional like me, and think to yourself  “I deserve a burrito today” about five times a week, just for getting out of bed). But when a guest is in town, I get an excuse to hit up a famous Chinatown restaurant while drunk at 7pm, so that’s what we did. But not before stumbling into a Joe’s Shanghai-adjacent cocktail bar and spending our weight in gold doubloons on two Pacificos and two shots of tequila. That night we went Bushwick barhopping, where we met up with Winston and Hannah who were drunk off their asses but displaying it in opposite ways: Winston fell asleep at Bizarre Bar. Hannah stayed out with us, heckling a shitty DJ at the afterhours spot until 6 am. We spent the next day eating Popeye’s, watching FoFiles, and sleeping on the couch.

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The following Tuesday, after wearing platforms to work like an idiot, I was somehow convinced to further destroy my feet by attending a Shaggy concert with Reid and Jesse at the Brooklyn Bowl. Reid and I waited in the frigid winds to buy door tickets while talking amongst ourselves about how much we hate the cold and waiting in lines and we didn’t even like Shaggy that much. But I was doing it for the story, and because I said I would, so we paid for our tickets and one single beer each that we nursed over the period of an hour and half. Then this moment happened, and we left. We were out by 11 pm. It felt like a success.

Later that week, having not yet gotten my first paycheck, I was relishing the freer things in life. Like getting my hair dyed black at work and drinking coworker-funded margaritas. Then Friday arrived, and I knew I had to go out even though I was scraping the bottom of my piggy bank. I knew it would be worth it, though. Tall Pat was having his birthday party in one of those rented karaoke rooms in Korea Town. I’d never been to one before and it turns out they are MEGA-KUSH. I guzzled a 7 dollar bottle of champagne, lost my earmuffs, found my earmuffs, lost my mind, then lost my phone…and didn’t notice until I made it home.

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Luckily Austin, a sweet new friend, found my phone and returned it to Reid who returned it to me a couple days later. In the meantime I sat in my room watching Scandal and talking to no one except my boyfriend on Facebook chat. It was kind of a luxury to be semi-disconnected. That is, until Oscar time rolled around and I was like, if I can’t livetweet this I will kill myself 100%. Part of growing up is getting your priorities straight, am I right?

Another week went by and I dragged myself out to the clurb to make an appearance out of what felt like necessity at the time. The event last Friday was *Shallow,* at Baby’s All Right, hosted by Ariel Max, Kelp Sea, Sarah Glenn and Bunny Von Lau. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to say hey to some babes I hadn’t seen in a while, and to see the homie Brian Whateverer aka Whatever 21 DJ, which was everything I anticipated. I even got to see Ms Fitz who greeted me with side-eye and a hug, saying “Are you wearing ugg boots in the club?” (I was, and shamelessly. Normcore may be dying but I’m just doing me. To be fair I was also wearing a Baby Phat bikini top, a mesh sweater, and a paisley scarf du-rag situation. I need to go shopping?). What I hadn’t anticipated was bumping into longtime homies Be Words and Megan McDearman, two lovely people I really don’t see enough. I had the unexpected pleasure of talking to Yung Be about my struggle to become more outgoing while she bought me beers and called me out for being a closet shy person. It was motivating. Of course, I still couldn’t manage to stay out all night, and I shared a cab with Reid back to Bushwick with heavy eyes around 2 am.

So maybe I’m contradicting myself. Trying to make more friends while also attempting to shut the world out and live alone in a studio apartment? Is that what I really want? Will that even work? There’s some Christian saying that goes, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” I don’t believe in God, but as I sit here before my next apartment showing, nervously sweating into my uggs, I realize, timeline or not, I’m basically just winging it. And yeah, I guess it is kinda funny.

MY BODY IS READY

(THIS is what true beauty, and having no idea what to do with your mouth in a photo, looks like up close) 

Okay, so I haven’t posted in three fucking weeks. That’s a lot. Maybe you’re wondering where I’ve been lately, or maybe you’re wondering why I keep talking about what I do with my life to the internet like the internet cares. If the latter is the case, move along, sport. For the rest of you, let’s go through this together, shall we?

The last few weeks were actually a bit stressful for me as I searched for a July sublet and a permanent apartment (I found both!), moved all my shit from Greenpoint to Bushwick by myself (sure, my stronger-than-wonderwoman-determined-as-fuck self, but still, my one-person-with-eight-70lb-suitcases-living-in-a-fourth-floor-walkup self. Yeah I don’t know why I have so much stuff, either), and then brought one of my tiny baby kittens, GONNY, up from North Carolina in an airplane carryon. Oh, and during all of this I was finding an apartment for my brother and his girlfriend who are moving up in two weeks, going to my internship three days a week and kind of, you know, looking for a paying job since my whack-ass savings account is nearly bone dry.

look at all this shit…ew

CUE NOT-SO-CLEVER TINIEST OF TINY VIOLIN JOKES

whatever. The point is that for the last couple of days I’ve been a total pussy, hanging out in my apartment nursing my kitten out of her crippling anxiety, watching Charlie Kaufman films and reading Murakami (I know right). I’ve only been out TWICE in the past week, which is sort of unheard of. I even went on a run today just for an excuse to hop around the city half-naked. I’m so over this shit.

Now that I’ve spent a couple of days writing in my journal (derrr) and proving to myself that I can “struggle with meaning” just like every other sad sack with a conscience, allow me to remind the world that I am STILL the second hardest-partying free human in North America (the first is Andrew WK. the rest are dead or in jail. Oh, I finally payed off my lawyer this week!) Anyway–

Weeks on weeks on weeks ago before I moved to Bushwick I was “between homes” as you all know. During that time I was staying with Patrick in the closet he calls his apartment (I said no SHADE, Patrick) and living out of a backpack. We did even more of everything together than usual that week. There was Verboten with Art Department where he, moe and I each sold our pinky toes for ‘reduced’ entry and party favors. It was a complete mess. You know when you go to an all-night dance party broke as fuck and so desperate to find a good time that when it finally happens, you slightly overdo it and drag yourself home from some warehouse at 9am? It was one of those. Needless to say there are no pictures of the after party. If someone had tried to snap single photo anywhere near me at that point, I would not have hesitated to give them a purple nurple. That’s right, don’t fuck with me when I’m on drugs.

We each traded a quart of sweat at the nearest burger king for this beverage. 1 part diet coke, 1 part regular coke,  2 parts $5 bacardi gold. 

 After I’d worn all the clothes in my knapsack I started hand-washing them in Patrick’s shower and drying them like this.

Since we’re poor we pretty much subsist on cheap liquor and stolen groceries alone, while weaseling our way onto the guest list of whatever’s going on that night. I don’t know man, maybe it’s a sad lifestyle but it’s the only life I kno.

How anyone in the world can be sad when this exists I will never understand.

Here’s me losing my dumb idiot mind all over the couch during the Tokimonsta show at Glasslands. I think Patrick should get a tattoo on that part of his arm. But das just me personally. 

Uh, here I am trying to do my makeup on the subway after sweating off a pair of cheap fake eyelashes and three layers of skin on the platform. Although you really cannot tell, it actually turned out alright. I got asked for my number by a STRAIGHT GUY that night, so you know it’s real. 

Fourth of July week was the week I officially moved, so I punctuated all the huffing and puffing and sweating and bitching with a few open bars, a few kikis, some outdoor drinking and a little bit of listening to fireworks alone in my shower.  I really don’t even remember what we actually did. I vaguely recall leaving the house at 1 am each night and being deeply disappointed by where I ended up. That’s what I get, I guess.

Trying my absolute hardest to channel Iggy Azalea with my tiny anorexic ponytail. I’m WORKING on it, fuck…

Probably one of the cutest lil things I’ve done this summer is ride the Staten Island Ferry with Skye. I didn’t realize you could actually drink BEER while riding it back and forth aimlessly and laughing about how stupid the Statue of Liberty is. What a treat.

I’m not nearly cute or sweet enough to be seen with him

One out of 3-ish billion instagrams of this exact same picture that week. America n shit n fuck.

Nature!!

One of the things we like to do when we run out of ideas, which has happened a LOT this month, is drink 40s of Olde English (I wish I were kidding) and go to shitty gay bars in Brooklyn where we can dance to playlists from 2007 and rub elbows with F-list off-duty drag queens. I honestly don’t really mind because the beers are two dollars and I get a lot of people coming up to me saying “oh my GOD, you are SO channeling KESHA right now!” Though I could do without the part where they touch my hair. Even the people who are closest to me in the entire world, including my literal mother, know that I turn into a rabid dog when hands go near the hair.  “BACK THE FUCK UP OFF THE CURLS, ASSHOLE.” oh PS I’m single!

Here I am with Gay Snooki at The Metropolitan. I forget his real name. Mostly I was just excited to take another picture of myself. 

The last thing I did before I took the megabus down to NC was the VICE Dos and Don’ts party at Powerhouse Arena. I love VICE juuuust about as much as your stereotyping ass would assume, and I wanted to drink vodka and weird beer at 7pm around cool people I don’t know, some people I know and don’t like, and those one or two people in between. Fucking sue me. When I was there I ran into two of my editors from work.

“Oh my god! Our intern is here! What are you doing here? Who do you know at VICE?”

“Umm…no one? Umm…everyone? I don’t know man, I kind of just do what I want.”

Uber trending/badass/borderline-psychopathic writers Cat Marnell and The Fat Jew were in charge of giving everyone slightly or straight-up overtly offensive name tags at the door, as a way for people with no interest in knowing each other to converse via smirks. The point is, Cat Marnell touched my tit. Lucky her, right?

Seriously, why give a fuck when you can just stand around and be all like “bleearh?” 

Cool pic of my boobs having more fun than me. dunno why that always happens. 

Fine, okay, whatever, shut up

Race was a hot topic at this event because VICE is all about controversy! But it pretty much mortified Patrick. Touche, Fat Jew.

UM, SO finally, the next day I went to Ralz and after buying my brother birthday tequila shots at dinner met up with Sass, Justin, Katy, Jeff and like 11 other fab gay dudes with rainbow colored hair. There was a 90s party at King’s that night which obviously meant we all had to dress like Zenon on mescaline, and I had to spend the rest of the weekend lying on the floor of my dad’s house trying to keep my head from falling off. After all that–and dragging a crying cat onto a 3-hour flight back up to New York–I needed a fucking break. Gonny kept me up until 9 am the night we got back with a disturbing, xanax-induced guttural rawr, and I’ve pretty much been sleeping ever since.

Now that I’ve risen from my coma, ~my body is ready~ for the next round of dumbassery. Stay tuned for more regular posts (less about parties and more on important things like bikini waxes and twitter cat-fights. Maybe I’ll write about the election! You don’t know!) PLUS a series of Sass’ scandalous photos from my crazy night down south. Spoiler alert: I look like a drunk hoe.

Enjoy your night.

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 COOK! I CLEAN! I TAKE CARE OF YOUR MOTHER!”

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)

(N STUF///N STUF///I’M A FUCKIN ARTIST SO STFU///)

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

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(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)

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(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.