diamond in the back

meeturmeat
I decided last weekend that the only way to follow ten straight workdays was to wage a full on-shit show, beginning with #ultravelvet @ passion lounge on thursday, @winston_filet’s birthday on friday, a trip to jacob riis beach on saturday, and dizzyland @ the spectrum on saturday night. I over-drafted my bank account and got a sweet tan, but the most interesting thing to come of it all was the total jackpot of photos that ended up on my phone.
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1) An antique stein and a lisa frank flask. Only the finest for my level of class.
2) kosmo chilling pre-party with a bottle cap on his head and Courtney Stodden’s tits in the bg

IMG_9528Street opulence with @brxdford

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@patrickokay all aglow in the passion lounge
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pretty obsessed with these futurefemme* visuals at #ultravelvet ALSO can i please get a plexiglass staircase in my home. Now.
*made up term
IMG_9505thumbsucking in the club. not sus. Everything that followed that night, maybe.
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IMG_9546Pray for me, y’all. Maybe you can do it at that chill ass church.

The next night was @winston_filet’s birthday, and like any good sister I met him at his Fada gig with gifts in hand (champagne, a shitty card, and a 10 pc nugget with a large fry from burger king). Some wack older dude touched my butt and I had to yell at him. That part sucked. The rest was chill. I went home at 1 and still fell asleep in the cab.
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The last day of my weekend was a Saturday as I had a damn job to do Sunday afternoon, but that left me plenty of time to meet these beautiful people at jacob riis beach to drink gallons of rum, play with pugs, eat fried chicken (guilty)…and take this amazing picture, courtesy of @melizards.
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After that we died and rose again for Dizzyland. The only picture I have of that is this.
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It might be the only one I need.

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Life is a *Hater*

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Lately I’ve had to put an enormous amount of energy into not letting the haters affect my game. It’s unclear what I’ve even been doing with my life in the last month or so, but the struggle to remain posi is real and alive and I am more dedicated than ever.

This likely has something to do with the fact that everything has kind of blown dogs for me in the last four weeks. If things don’t steer straight for me soon, I fear I may become a hater myself.

Mercury was in retrograde for a minute there, which, for those of you that haven’t decided to arbitrarily assign significance to astrology, means that everything is supposed to be fucked up for a few weeks in the realm of communication. Decisions you make will be misinformed and contracts you sign will probably be reneged. Terrible things are supposed to happen all around, and they usually do for me. I tend to find myself on some manic binge, ending up in strange places at 5 in the morning and getting in trouble with the law. Because my life has been fantastically boring since the last time we spoke, I did not get myself into any life altering predicaments, and it was purely for lack of trying. Most of my days have been spent working my ~shit day job~ so much that all I ever want to do outside of that is shop online and play drinking games to Rookie of the Year. Of course I’ve been desperate to figure out my next move, and for a while I had a few bright options. I choose to blame the fizzling of those prospects on Mercury Retrograde and face it with the “one door closes, another opens” philosophy…because otherwise I’d just spend the rest of my life dipping french fries in my soft serve at the Burger King under the M train and feeling sorry for myself.

Because I try to always follow through with things I say I’ll do and be a “yes” person, from time to time I have decided to go out and show my face. I realize I need to meet new people, and sometimes when I do I feel great. Other times I’ve followed friends out to their somewhat intimate gatherings full of people I’ve never met where everyone asks me if I’m visiting from out of town and I fall into a k-hole of social awkwardness. Either way I usually just end up taking selfies in the bathroom.

The most exciting things that have happened in the last month are that Rainbow had a sale on crop tops, Hannah dyed my hair brown, I started walking a puppy three times a week, and I finally bought a bed. I’ve heard most Americans have them but I’ve just been sleeping on mattresses laid directly on the floor ever since I discarded my canopy bed when I was 14. The worst was a flea infested twin sized pad from my childhood bunk bed that I threw in the corner of my room and slept on for 5 months last year after I moved out of my ex’s house. The fleas were my cats’ fault, but really my fault. I still find it funny the number of one-night suitors I actually had the guts to bring back to that place, and laughable how many never complained, even with coffee cups and kitty litter everywhere. One of them even dated me for 3 months. Now, though, at the wrinkled age of 23 I try not to even have one night stands because the idea of bringing strangers into my house repulses me. I have to wonder if that’s because I’m appropriately embarrassed by the unfinished nature of my bedroom and the apparent lack of hygiene it projects or if I simply can’t stand strangers enough to commute with them back to my Bushwick apartment, or some combination of the two.

This hasn’t stopped me from giving my number to the wrong people, like the the creepy short guy that followed me home on Sunday night or the dude from Ok Cupid who offered me molly to “party” with him and his girlfriend. Needless to say I’ve changed a couple contacts in my phone to Do Not Pick Up. Somehow I have no interest in sleeping with people I don’t have “real feelings” for, and I definitely don’t have the energy to put myself such a volatile situation of sleeping with someone I actually like.

In the meantime I can’t stop getting shit from the people around me, and I’ve taken it much more personally than usual. People questioning my intelligence based on my open sexuality (I’ve always failed to see a connection between the two but apparently there is one?), women who compliment me with an insulting tone (“your boobs are so BIG”). Someone told me during sex recently that I hate my life but that I’m lying to myself (big question mark on that one) And a coworker pleasantly dispensed the info that my college major was totally useless and that’s why I’m a receptionist. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was probably just mad because she’s 37, just went back to undergrad and recently had a nervous breakdown over writing a 2.5 page paper double spaced. Still, if these things are upsetting me it’s because I’m not 100% happy with myself, and that’s on me.

There is always going to be someone hating you for who you are or who they decide you are. Out of fear, out of jealousy, or purely for the fun of it. Negativity is a fucking contagion, and you should never let the fact that someone hates their life mean you have to hate yours too. I’m constantly encountering women who hate other women for being sexual, or for being confident, or because of a man. Women who backwardly find threatening the outspokenness of another. People who are nauseated by other people’s success. People who offer career connections in exchange for sexual favors (a thing I naively thought only happened in movies like Legally Blonde). I try not to let it affect me, but about half the time it does.

Fine, so I’m still figuring out my reason for getting up in the morning. But I’m still going to do it. You can’t go through life believing you’re as trashy or as stupid or as sad as people say. If you want to be better, be better. But don’t allow yourself to be shamed.

My career and my love life may remain virtually nonexistent, but I’m still holding on to my posi vibes and taking my chances. Even if I fuck up royally and it feels like a kick in the gut, at least I know I’m trying. After all, you are the only one who can make yourself feel truly awful. No one else. And isn’t that nice?

Dead at ’13

snotever

You all know I love to complain. It’s partly because I am a loud, bratty perfectionist incapable of being satisfied and partly because I enjoy finding the humor in my misfortune and sharing that humor with you people. So it should come as no surprise that even though I have reunited with nearly every one of my closest friends in the past four weeks I can only think about how being with said friends exhausted me completely and how I’ve since become physically ill.

When I returned to Brooklyn after Christmas I spent a few days working and trying to relax. When I unsurprisingly failed at that, I focused my efforts on frantic attempts to stave off the illness I’d been trying to avoid since November (swallowing 9 whole cloves of garlic per day, mainlining packets of emergen-c, spraying the homeless with Scrubbing Bubbles, etc). Sometimes I have to remind my body that I have shit to do, and a good handful of the most important people in my life were to arrive in mere hours. I primped and dustbusted every corner of my apartment in anticipation of everyone’s arrival, which was expected to be sometime around 7 am New Years Eve. Although I only had two guests staying with me that night, pieces of my crew were to be scattered all over the city for the next week or so. I even planned a dinner for that night at Chimu, the restaurant next to my building, to bring us all together in grand adult fashion. Of course, not one individual arrived at my house before the sun was down, and only about half the reservation showed up to the restaurant.

Y do I even try?

Never mind the epic of reasonable alibis each absent member provided. I suddenly knew just how my mother felt when I showed up at her house this (and every) Christmas hung over and two days late. When I got over the minimal ego bruise of the situation and realized the food was just as delicious as I knew it would be, it was time to change into the New Years outfit I’d had planned for a month and pop no less than three bottles of champagne. No need to start off the year with any drama. Although, in a way, that was exactly what were were about to do.

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One by one they started filing in. Lil Kim, Tall Pat, Katy, Patrick, Matt, Kam and Connor joined Brad, Winston, Hannah, Coby, Peter and myself to briefly “pre-game” (something I’ve really got to find another name for) before heading to the drag show at Secret Project Robot…an event that boasted all any event need boast: free champagne and a Bushwick address.

I decided not to drink much to leave room for other activities. I was not about to have a repeat of Last New Years. 2012 was merely the beginning of my comeback. In 2013 I aim for perfection, beginning with my alcohol-to-drug ratio.

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After we arrived, the ten dollar cover–five more dollars than we had expected—tore our crew into smaller, albeit much more manageable pieces. Those of us that made it through the door were served an ample supply of teased-wig realness, a good two hours of free champagne and all your favorite crowd-pleasing hits from the 2000s. Hannah and Winston were acting like total love bugs spreading PLUR all over the place despite the fact that Hannah could barely stand up after 11:30. At one point I was on Hannah-duty and kept having to sit her down on the bench outside while I went to get drinks or go pee. By the time we finally counted down to midnight everyone around me was totally loopy, either lip syncing for their dear lives across the dance floor or caught in a tear-filled heart to heart by the pinball machines. But all I could think about was how much my god damn feet were hurting, so before we went to the next party I stopped by my house to change my shoes.

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Our next venue was oddly enough a Lutheran church in the heart of Bushwick. We entered through a dimly lit dirt basement where we checked our coats and spiraled up to the stairs to the main hall. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. What used to be a “house of God” was now a playground for heathens and insomniacs (that could afford the $60 entry fee). By this point I was so out of my mind all I could think was that it made sense. Finally a church had made itself useful to me. After I successfully over-vibed with everyone I was with to the point of toplessness, security started yelling at everyone to get out, presumably due to the rising sun. We waited for a cab in the freezing winds, checked our email and went to the second location. Inside the warehouse, the address of which remains unclear to me, we danced until our raggedy faces had fully drooped to the concrete floor (sometime around 10 am).

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That day I slept as well as I could with the afternoon sun beaming through the curtain and into my eyes.

The few nights that followed were certified flops as I had to work and was otherwise useless, until that Thursday when Patrick and I decided to hoof it in Williamsburg and have just enough drinks to say rude things to people. We left just in time to eat all of the pizza, and I fell asleep with ranch in my lap watching Reno 911.

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The next morning Patrick went to court to deal with that ticket we both got last summer (remember that time we trespassed like 6 months ago? Well I had pretty much forgotten about it too). I stayed home to fail at sleeping until Austin arrived and I skipped off to work. Afterward, in typical fashion, Patrick, Kim, Austin and I went to the Metropolitan, had some laughs, took some photos and left. And as usual, most of the fun was had on the train. But before going back to my apartment I made sure to stop by a nutritionally unsafe taqueria that was basically located in a trashcan under some stairs. I ordered a burrito situation that I drowned in 12 ounces of different hot sauces and immediately came down with a disturbing case of GUT ROT that lasted through the next day at work. I didn’t want to go out that night, but Bill had finally arrived and I couldn’t pussy out. On my way to the party I projectile vomited mid sentence on the sidewalk. I later continued to throw up in the toilet, and followed that up by drinking liquor and performing more than my share of 2009 antics, ie. runway walks back and forth in my brother’s apartment, things just flying up our noses, etc. For a minute I completely forgot we weren’t in my college living room. When we were finally heading to the bar, two of my friends got tickets for doubling in the subway turnstile before realizing the train wasn’t coming for another hour. We ended up just going to a bar in my neighborhood instead, and when we ultimately separated I decided to sleep out. This decision later left my friends stuck in the snow, desperately trying to get in touch with me (asleep, naked, fetal positioned me with a stomach ache in a boy’s bed). They ended up having to take a $50 cab to our friend’s house in Park Slope. Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of flopping lately. Perhaps I’m getting too old for this.

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Sunday night, Austin and Bill were the only two visitors left standing. Refusing to stay in for even just one of our nights together, we dragged ourselves around Brooklyn aimlessly for hours looking for bars and restaurants that may have not even existed, before settling on Greek takeout and going home to watch Archer.

Could I fucking sleep now?

Like clockwork, I was immediately overtaken by the paralyzing cold that had been stalking me for weeks. I can’t breathe, I have chills, and I’m forced to work because I just spent my last five bucks on kitty litter. As I write this, snot is pouring onto my upper lip and I miss my friends terribly. But now that they’re gone, I have the freedom to sit here alone, removing my nail polish with Burger King napkins and watching all 7 seasons of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia in succession. And believe me, it’s just what the doctor ordered.
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The Jordan Year

excuse the tardiness as this was written friday at 7 am and I forgot to post it bc they don’t teach you anything in college

GOOD MORNING EVERYONE from the warm, welcoming gates of JFK airport. I’m leaving New York for the weekend to meet my mom and sister in Martha’s Vineyard where we’ll stay with my brother until Monday. I have about 40 minutes until my plane starts boarding to scarf down this disgustingly spot-hitting egg and cheese bagel from Au Bon Pain, chug a cup of hazelnut flavored coffee (ugh I know) and tell you all about my 23rd birthday…all while trying/failing to not get too much grease all over my laptop. I feel like a real blogger! A writer on the go! Except I think if I were a real blogger I’d have like an iPad or something and I probably would have written this earlier.

So anyway, I turned 23 on Saturday. I was trying not to give it much thought because for whatever reason nearly everyone I’ve witnessed leave 22 behind has had some sort of mental breakdown. Something about not having achieved anything in their lives, with some guilt mixed in about continuing to let themselves have as much fun as they did when they were in college. This affects them in one of two ways: it either motivates them to leave town and pursue their ~wildest dreams~ or they suddenly fall into a 9 to 5 job and disappear forever. And I guess there is a third way, where the person just chills and becomes a bigger and bigger alcoholic (It’s okay if that’s you. Who am I to judge?)

Since this past year I’ve somehow traveled from the depths of the prolapsed anus known as “My Twenties” to an exciting world of endless possibility known as “My Twenties!” and in doing so I realized that…things don’t really get worse as you get older. They sometimes get way the fuck better. In my case, it wouldn’t take much to make 23 the best year yet.

(I recently saw my first New York doctor and after I answered a series of questions about my “personal history” she quietly asked if I wanted to see a list of therapists. I burst out laughing and then said, sure.)

I’m talking about turning neg vibes into pos vibes. I’m talking about embracing life no matter what age you are, and not letting people shame you into being someone you don’t want to be. This isn’t the fifties. This isn’t even the nineties. 23 means something totally different than it ever has. Just because you weren’t a prodigy doesn’t mean you won’t be successful. Just because you’re not in school doesn’t mean you have to make the leap straight from Biff to Willy Loman. Just because you like to have fun doesn’t make you an alcoholic. Look at your life! Look at your choices! Evaluate accordingly. If there’s something there you don’t like, change it. If you’re truly upset about something it’s probably more than just your age, and there is probably something you can do about it.

Upon realizing this I decided I had the right to celebrate the survival of another tumultuous year exactly as I normally would. No guilt. No shame. Just a Burger King crown and a lot of body glitter. We started the night off with a reservation for six at an Indian restaurant in the East Village called Milon. It’s part of a cluster of similarly themed locales one after another, any of which I could have been sucked into by their parade of street advertising were it not for my informed companions. This place is ridiculous. They pretty much give you a 1×4’ table to share with all the members of your party in a space about the size of a sleeper on the Darjeeling Limited* which you share with six or seven parties of the same size. The ceiling is made up completely of low hanging chilly pepper holiday lights and they play loud Bangladeshi music you can barely speak over. It’s amazing, and apparently it’s a popular birthday celebration spot because about every five or so minutes they’d flash the lights and bring out cake for someone. Of course I acted as though it was for me every single time. I ate enough food for about 16 people and forced everyone I saw to take a picture with me. Did I mention this place is BYOB?
*ignorant pop culture reference

When we got back to the apartment we proceeded to drink what was left of our spiced rum and champagne, and having already had a few bottles myself, I started making creations out of Elmer’s glue and glitter on my body while playing The-Dream videos and drawing all over my laptop with a paint pen. Um, surprise. I ended up covering the entire kitchen floor in glitter for days, which led to weeks, and now pretty much every item of clothing I own is covered in red and silver specks (an homage to The [original] Glitter Party of ’09 when I turned 20, after which people were found glitter on their dicks every day until Thanksgiving. You’re welcome).

After that I changed into some pants and we went to some party for Mexican Independence Day which apparently is NOT Cinco de Mayo? I really didn’t know much of what was going on at this point. All I remember is throwing confetti in the face of everyone I saw and Winston attempting to drink PBR out of three cans at once. By 2 am I was texting a crush explicit things such as (to paraphrase) that I wanted to eat him like Billy Madison eats a snack pack. I never heard back from him. He’s probably voting for Romney. Later I fell asleep in my clothes eating a can of lukewarm kidney beans and watching Seinfeld. The night had pretty much gone as planned.

Despite my stubborn attempts to cling to immaturity, I am making strides towards adulthood. I have a job with a decent wage now. I’m buying a Dustbuster for daily kitty litter and glitter clean-up (hello, spinster). I have decided to no longer travel long distances by bus (Pretty lofty. We’ll see.) And I am CONSIDERING paying for cable. I’ve also tossed around the idea of ~investing~ in non-bottom shelf liquors and ~keeping~ them in the house for more than 5 hours at a time. You know, practicing casual adult drinking instead of just chugging Four Loko and Andre all the time.

But you know. Baby steps.

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.