Back in August, my BFF Sarah Sassafrass turned 23 and I flew down to Raleigh to surprise her. She was having the most 2013-themed party of all time and there was absolutely no chance I’d miss it. A combination of four themes that perfectly embody my bff. You may remember this promotional video we hired a Coppola (me) to direct:

Sass, being the dedicated artist that she is, always insists on taking her own party photos. But also being a working woman and a full-time art student leaves little time for working on recreational projects, so it took her a little while to get these photos edited. I won’t say I enjoyed the wait, but I will say it was worth it. Join me in this visual journey under the sea, to a party that ended up somewhere between a sweet 16, a carolina porch party and a pride parade. Naturally, I’m wearing a bra, a crown, a skirt I bought from Guess in 2005, and some five dollar hair.

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I know we weren’t actually underwater, but I could swear I heard bubbles all around my head. Come to think of it, maybe that was the poppers.


Growing up (is hard 2 do)

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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Thru the eyes of Sass

When you move to New York in the summer, it feels like a vacation for the first few months. The vibes are fancy and free. Your delusions are at their most vital. Your perspective shifts with the onset of autumn when the sun starts setting at five and you haven’t made new friends yet and you spend a lot of your free time fetal and trying to ignore the draft from your window. Your patience for the city starts to wane. You resent the elderly for walking too slowly and every child that ever makes a sound. Things haven’t picked up for you as quickly as you thought. You’re still struggling to make ends meet and you’re pretty sure you will be for a long time.

Everyone tells me this same story. Maybe this is just how it goes. Maybe I need to drink more.

The greatest salvation comes when friends and ~loved ones~ visit from home. It is especially calming if they’ve never visited before and you get to see the look on their faces as they see everything for the first time. They think it’s so cool just to live here, and it kind of is, but you keep forgetting. Maybe you’ll remember this strange loneliness as the most romantic time of your life. It’s just depends on how you look at it, and if you can learn to stop being a little bitch.

Last month Sarah Sassafrass came to New York for the first time, along with Derrick, Katy and Justin. These are her photos.

So what the fuck is my problem?

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.

All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Yolo

THERE’S SO MUCH TO DO IN NEW YORK, AM I RIGHT? But sometimes that’s the problem. Though not nearly as busy as my summer schedule, I’ve had plenty of invites over the last couple of weeks to keep me busy. Labor day weekend brought the promise of ample nonsense as I had finished my internship and figured I might as well cushion the blow of my impending unemployment. I was going to go out to bars and parties and shows and the beach, and they were all going to be at least half amazing. What it turned into was an anticlimactic sequence of events that stretched into the next several days, leaving me with a pointless hangover from the holiday weekend to fashion week.

It had been the plan to go to Ft. Tilden on Labor Day for weeks, and we weren’t about to back out even though the weather was on some bullshit. I had gone out the night before for juuust enough time to drink a Raspberry Lemonade Four Loko, make 1.5 friends, get a headache and go home. I woke up the next “morning” and took my time getting ready. I probably made some fried rice since I pretty much eat that every day now (a segment on cheap and easy meals for the near-homeless and nutritionally concerned to come at a later date). Never mind the sad image of me squeezing the last of the sriracha into my mouth while eating my first of three meals that day consisting of 98% carbohydrates. I had hope for this beach trip. I wore my favorite sequined hat and brought my signature BUTT/FACE towel that my mom got me from Big Lots. I had sunscreen. I had, like, a book. It somehow didn’t matter that we weren’t going to get to the beach until 4:30. I was even convinced that the cloud cover would relent and we’d have at least a few hours of drinking in the sun.

Um, it didn’t. But for some reason I am oddly dedicated to celebrating every single national holiday to the fullest. On the Fourth of July I woke Patrick up and made him carry a box of Corona and a bag of ice from his apartment to Central Park, just so we could sit and drink while making fun of people LIKE REAL AMERICANS. To answer your question, no, it didn’t occur to me that we were drinking Mexican beer. We also forgot a bottle opener. The point is, doing cliche shit on holidays for whatever reason makes me feel actualized. So when we got to the beach and saw Natalia leaving and a bunch of storm clouds rolling in, Hannah, Winston and I sat and enjoyed our mixed drinks in defiance. None of us brought jackets so we wrapped ourselves in towels. It was actually pretty cold considering the lack of sun and the strong winds and the fact that we were sort of getting rained on. The weather held out long enough, though, for us to leave the beach and troll a nearby park until about 9, when we took the wrong bus back to Brooklyn and ended up at a part of the 1 train I didn’t know existed.

Later that night my brother got sick, probably because we drank about four types of liquor that day. I tried to force feed him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but he ended up just puking in my sink, so he and his girlfriend went home to recoup. I met up with my friend Jeffrey who was visiting from North Carolina and proceded to bar-hop in Bushwick. We were denied entrance everywhere because it was last call.

That’s Jeffrey posing beside what I believe is the tag “Young Rectum.”

I spent the next day in my apartment, watching TV and probably eating more rice. I left Jeffrey with his more enthusiastic friends and the promise that we’d go out again on Wednesday. I don’t remember exactly what we had planned. A party at Thompson LES maybe? So I got “fancy” with a mini dress/platform combo I’ve worn more than once this summer, and waited to meet him in the city. By the time he was on his way it was after midnight, which would have been fine, except that the L train near my house wasn’t running after midnight and the Knickerbocker M station is closed for renovations until 2050. I had to take a SHUTTLE from Dekalb to Lorimer street all jam packed with entry level alts and teen gay runaways. Traumatic, to say the least. By the time I met Jeffrey and Kate at Union Square and we drove to the Lower East Side…the party was completely over. We spent the rest of the night drinking vodka out of a Smart water bottle, chasing it with Diet Cranberry Ocean Spray and taking pictures of ourselves doing stupid shit. I stumbled home around 5:30.

It’s important to take lots of pictures of your outfit when you know no one is going to see you that night. Oh, um, here I am hanging out with a Pontiac. 

Days later, the same thing would happen when my friends and I planned to go to a fashion week after party we were on the list for, but after pre-gaming (I have got to grow out of calling it that) and taking an hour’s worth of train rides, arrived just as they closed the list (What does that even mean? Do you know who I am?!). As it turns out, the only reason we left the house that night was so Winston could get a $100 ticket for jumping a subway turnstile. It hasn’t been his week.

So what am I to do? Leave my house before midnight? Show up early for things? As simple as that sounds, I can’t justify putting in all that extra effort just to spend more money on drinks. It cramps my style. I also have about $30 to my name. So maybe fuck showing up at all.  Who needs friends and fabulous company? I’ll just be aimlessly roaming the streets taking pictures of myself with my arm around inanimate objects.


Alcoholics! Creeps! People who are just bored! It’s me, that weird hoe you know, and I’m back with a posse this time. I’ve been spending the last week or so moving FOR THE GRILLIONTH AND LAST TIME (literally ever. i will die in this fucking apartment), trying to be a hardworking responsible adult. I unearthed some treasures from my pre-teen days in the sorting process, got some sweet new digs and finally got my boycat MISTER KOSSY up to New York. But I don’t want to bore you with stories about my first time at Ikea or how I found out the hard way that expired body glitter is, like, really bad for your skin…at least not today.

Remember when I told you I went down to Ralz for 48 hours a month ago and had a ratchet ol’ time?! Well now I have the photos to prove to you just how perfect the experience really was. We drank lokos. We saw god. I straddled a Buick. You know, a part of me is genuinely surprised the state of North Carolina hasn’t already outlawed this kind of fabulous fuckery.

(Pics by Sarah Sassafrass, naturally)