A Comprehensive List of Everything I Ate Thanksgiving Week

IMG_2287Celebrating Thanksgiving like a true American, in a Ralph Lauren blouse and someone’s neon hunting hat

This Thanksgiving was the first I was able to return home to Raleigh in the near three years I’ve lived in New York. I’d cleared my not so busy schedule to go down a few days early to help my dad recover from a routine surgery he was supposed to have, and when that surgery  was canceled, I had even more time to do what Thanksgiving is all about – appreciate loved ones (sure yeah whatever) AND expand my culinary and dietary horizons by eating no less than 5,000 calories a day not including alcohol.

The following is a comprehensive list of everything I consumed from Monday November 23 to Saturday November 29, 2014.

Monday: 
Airport Five Guys bacon burger with lettuce tomato and mayo and a Coke
Cobb salad from Chick Fil A with honey mustard dressing, fries with mayonnaise, ranch dipping sauce and lemonade
Cold pepperoni from the package
Two miniature red velvet cupcakes
Turkey deli meat from the package
One large vodka tonic with lime
One glass of red wine
4? 5? vodka cranberries
2 bunless Nathan’s hotdogs dipped in ranch and ketchup
1 bowl of leftover pot roast
Water

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One of the three grocery carts filled with food for my family’s 20-odd Thanksgiving guests

Tuesday:
Water
A leg and thigh of Bojangles chicken
1 Bojangles biscuit
2 glasses of sweet tea
1 glass iced coffee
1 Bojangles chicken breast
1 glass sweet tea
1 queen olive
1 pickled okra
2 grapes
1 Angry Orchard Cider
8 Cajun shrimps
1 bowl of penne vodka with three mozzarella stuffed meatballs
Spinach artichoke dip and sourdough bread
Water

IMG_2289Feast your eyes on the creamiest, tastiest spinach artichoke dip ever to grace the earth, made by me

Wednesday:
Coffee
Spinach artichoke dip and tortilla chips
Water
Massive sports bar nachos from Ruckus topped with chili, chicken, salsa, onions, olives, tomatoes, lettuce, cheddar, guacamole and sour cream.
2 Red Oak beers
Original style chicken sandwich from Cook Out
Water
4 piece nugget from Chick Fil A
More artichoke dip
Homemade cajun dirty rice
2 glasses of white wine
4 vodka cranberry sprites with raspberries

Thursday: 
Two pieces of bacon
Mimosas
One deviled egg
Brussel sprouts with mushrooms and garlic cloves
Baked mac n cheese
Green bean casserole
Squash casserole
Broccoli casserole
Turkey leg meat
Mashed potatoes and gravy
Acorn squash
Meat loaf
3 glasses of white wine
Water
1 bottle of San Pellegrino
More green bean casserole
Sarah’s Mom’s Filipino beef and noodle dish (name unknown)
Corn
Mashed potatoes
Ham
Water
1 Dr. Thunder
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Friday:
Green bean casserole
Mashed potatoes with gravy
Meatloaf
Stuffing
Squash casserole
Brussel Sprouts
Coffee
A dozen fresh Oysters on the half shell from 42nd Street Oyster Bar
Peel and eat shrimp
Raw clams
New England clam chowder
Seafood bisque
Oyster sampler: one topped with hot pimento cheese, one topped with breadcrumbs and garlic, one topped with spinach and cheese.
Scallops
Mashed potatoes
Penne pasta with poblano cream
2 martinis
1 margarita
leftover bacon
2 Tito’s Vodka grapefruits
Sapphire gin and grapefruit mixed drinks (exact number unknown)
Sapphire gin and diet cranberry ginger ale mixed drinks (exact number unknown)

IMG_2260We ordered many plates of these. I consumed a whole one on my own. 

Saturday:
Water
Coffee
1 bowl of penne and meatballs
1 bowl of green bean casserole
Half a pressed green juice
Steamed pork dumplings
Egg roll with duck sauce
General tso’s chicken (all white meat)
Pork fried rice
Water

Now, with that in mind, we must remember that there are people all over the world who are starving, who will never even see a fraction of this amount of food in a single week of their lives. Around the holidays it’s as important to share as much as you can with people in need, as it is not to take for granted the infinite holiday smorgasbord you might have access to. Appreciate the food. Make love to the food. Become one with the food. And in a small way, you will have begun to do your part. Just, if you can, try not to puke.

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SEXUAL ABDUCTION

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I may be a little late posting these, but seeing as I’m still fumbling around my apartment in a post-holiday haze singing “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas,” I figured the story of the BEST HOLIDAY PARTY OF 2013/EVER IN HISTORY was still appropriate to share.

For those of you who don’t know, I host an annual (two years & going strong!) XXXMAS party along with Jeffrey Scott, Sarah Sassafrass, Boy Reverend and Katy at their home in Raleigh. Last year we had SCURRY XXXMAS, a horror-meets-winter solstice theme that wasn’t really visually embodied beyond Christmas sweaters, sequins, and leaving our Halloween decorations up alongside snowflakes and disco balls. This year, we wanted to take things a bit further. While drunk at my brother’s Martha’s Vineyard home over Thanksgiving, I texted back and forth with Sass about themes, before finally making the Facebook event and broadcasting over Twitter. We decided on XXXMAS: ABDUCTION, where all things extraterrestrial would meet all things festive for a gigantic hometown holiday explosion.

I was certain it would be a great success, but not without some stress on my part. For an entire year after Scurry, I could not manage to live down the fact that I had fallen asleep early and missed most of my own soiree. People I didn’t even know were giving me shit about it well into the Fall of ’13, a humiliation that was only tempered when someone I’d never met before invited me to my own party this year (it was just like that episode of My So-Called Life where Rayanne used all her money to throw herself a birthday bash except I didn’t OD in the end). Although this year I would be arriving in Raleigh four days prior to the event with ample time to prepare, I had my plate pretty full with family issues and, you know, nail appointments and going to Dave & Busters. I had already purchased my look (on discount, with the help of Moe Dabbagh) and had it sent to my mother’s Cary residence, but I was unneccesarily worried about the decor. Two days before the event, I showed up to 3801 to find unassembled bubble wrap all over the floor, some kind of PVC archway in the hall, and paint and paper everywhere. Half finished gigantic alien head drawings were draped on the couch. I was eating a Cook Out corndog and spewing out complaints in my signature “I’m joking but not” tone, and I was pretty sure Sass was *this close* to blinding me with spray adhesive.

“IT WILL BE GREAT. IT’S A WORK IN PROGRESS. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW.”

Sarah and I, as distinctly nonverbal and verbal artists respectively, often have a hard time imagining the other’s vision.

“We’re going to use this paper to make a giant circle and be the space portal,” she half explained while stomping around the house draped in twinkly lights and waving scissors. Whatever you say, Sarah.

And damn if I didn’t underestimate her again. Let it be known that in the midst of a full time work schedule, not to mention her final exam week, Sass still managed to spend 2 days cleaning and crafting to make the house into a full-on art installation. The Reverend’s PVC and bubble wrap creation had fully transformed the hallway into a Cosmic Ice Tunnel, and with the help of a few extras from me (a fog machine, an outdoor set up, 150 autographed extra copies of my Christmas card, and colorful lightbulb replacements in every room) as well as a few extra hands (Katy and Sass’s bro included), we managed to complete the setup by 8 pm on the night of the party…just before the first guests started barreling through the doors in packs. With the halls fully decked and LuxePosh on her decks, we were ready to leave this planet behind. Photos by Sarah Sassafrass for your viewing pleasure.
(Warning: there are lots. When Sass’ website goes public I will just link to it, but for now, enjoy the mass)
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I didn’t exactly take a census, but I want to say…everyone fabulous in the entire state was there? I think we stumbled into a time warp or something, because the clocks were saying 5 am but I felt like the party had just begun. The next morning, feeling unexpectedly spritely, Katy and I went to Chipotle, and then Bojangles, and back home to eat in the wreckage. Sass was nowhere to be found and there was trash and barf everywhere. I was using pieces of painted bubble wrap as mini surfborts to slide across the slimy floors. My body suit was in a tangled mess and my autographs were strewn across the muddy yard.

As the sun was beginning to set on the second shortest day of the year, we finally located Sass. To this day, though, she prefers she’d remained abducted.
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Flashback Friday: Return to the Teen Scene

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I don’t really remember much from my most recent trip to North Carolina, which is a shame since it was probably the last I’ll make for quite some time. It might be irrelevant now, but sitting here listening to Blink 182 (shamelessly) I can’t help but get nostalgic for a time when I could ride around drunk in the passenger seat of other people’s cars with no plans or obligations but to pressure my suburban peers to smoke weed with me on my trampoline. I’m referring, of course, to about six weeks ago.

After resigning from my position as Professional Salon Receptionist I managed to snag a few days between jobs to go home to the Triangle. The idea was that I’d see each person I love for about five minutes and have a quick spa session before returning to New York to start my “new life,” all while maintaining a therapeutic yet dangerously high blood-alcohol level. I’d like to share my experiences with you using the photos I found saved on my phone from that week, since that’s the only way I can recall what happened in the first place.
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Day 1: I spent the morning drinking vodka cranberries and tanning on the trampoline at my mom’s house in Cary until Greg drove 4o minutes from his parents’ house in Zebulon so we could smoke bowls and drive around. My friendship with Greg has been going strong for about ten years and we’ve spent most of them doing exactly this. Above is a photo of us on our way out to Chapel Hill to rescue some younger friends from the clutches of our alma mater. As you can see, Greg is sporting his classic UNC hat in forest camouflage and I am sporting my classic boob being out.

I guess it was something in the southern air or possibly the fact that I was WASTED at 4 pm but I really wanted to have a party that night. I made a huge deal about it on twitter and everything, which was sort of hilarious since it was the middle of the week and the only way I was going to get my friends out to Cary was to drive them myself. When most of them opted to stay in Chapel Hill, I googled “rude clip art” and sent these out via text:
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Day 2: My relationship with my mother sort of amazing in that I can be whiny and annoying to her almost all of the time and she just finds it amusing. I’m like The Simple Life to her. Above is a picture of me standing in my mom’s backyard after I forced her to give me braided pigtails and she totally surprised me by giving me this tiara! But don’t get it twisted. I may be the princess, but my mom is the queen. There’s a reason she just had one lying around. Later, Greg picked me up because he had to go to Zebulon to do laundry or something and I had literally nothing else to do but ride around with him. I hadn’t been home for 48 hours and I was already bored. Why did I think having nothing to do would be a luxury? Here’s a picture of how high I had to get to make up for it.

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If you didn’t know, Zebulon is a town in North Carolina made up entirely of fast food restaurants. We went to three of them.IMG_7424
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The next day there was like a hurricane or a tornado warning or something stupid, so I wrapped myself in one of the Ritz Carlton robes my mom lives in and treated myself to that spa day I’d been looking forward to all week. If you thought I was exaggerating about my mom being a queen perhaps her taste in bathroom decor will convince you. I proceeded to send my future boyfriend as many elegant nudes as possible, use every bath and body product in sight and get so drunk in the tub that I sliced the shit out of my leg with a venus razor. I’m proud to say it looked pret-ty gnarly.
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That night I was planning to attend one of the few events I used to look forward to back in NC, #NB4R. I was excited to see my boo Jermaine and of course hear what Luxe Posh was spinning these days, but the flash floods were putting a serious damper on my vibe. To lift my spirits I put my hair in my mom’s rollers and decorated my nails with some cheap stickers that just ended up falling off after I got Bojangles grease on them. IMG_7586
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At the party we spent most of our time either in the bathroom or outside talking shit. Apparently I was acting like a Teen Bitch to everyone all night, which seems accurate I guess. A pretty bold choice for someone who was camped out on the floor of the men’s room all night, but I stand by it.

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Anyway, it turns out airplanes aren’t time machines. Things have really changed in the last year and most of us have grown up and away from our old scene. This trip made it very clear that the North Carolina period of my life is dead and buried, or at least cryogenically frozen, and I’m totally okay with that. Still, it’s nice to get out of the city every once in a while and remember why I moved here in the first place. No shade on the old stomping grounds, but you gotta grow up sometime.

I’ll always miss Laguna Beach High School.

holidays on xxx

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A good friend of mine said recently that December is the Sunday of the year, which might explain why in the few weeks after Thanksgiving I’d been feeling a strange combination of lethargic and anxious. I’d taken on more hours at what I refer to as my “day job,” thus falling into and perfecting a routine that gave me a sense of not entirely false responsibility and sent me to bed at a decent hour. In fact I’m almost certain that my most exciting nights leading up to the holidays were: 1) watching Contagion while babysitting in Prospect Park, 2) my worldview imploding at my workplace Christmas party when I smoked weed with my boss, and 3) getting my credit card rejected while trying to order a gin and tonic at an Irish pub on Crosby street.

Routine gives me the creeps. I’m always a worried that if I get too used to my life as it is I’ll wake up ten years from now and still be making $300 a week. I need change, I thought. I need to make moves! In a notebook I keep next to my bed I’d scrawl manic to-do lists and grandiose long term goals before waking up the next day with just enough time for the bare necessities, running all of my errands between the hours of 9 pm and 9 am. Who the hell had I become?

But I found some comfort in my friend’s observation. For as long as I can remember, that Sunday night feeling has been synonymous with the onset of a stomach flu or a category 5 identity crisis. But I’ve tried to accept over the years that there isn’t much you can do to change your life on a Sunday night. Nothing is open, everyone is checked out and home with their families. The only thing you can do you is reward your accomplishments, assess your failures and prepare yourself for the coming week.

I decided that now was the time to be kind to myself. This meant, of course, that I would focus all of my attention on my holiday plans, putting great emphasis on the best idea I’ve had all year (next to moving to New York)–

SCURRYXXXMAS

Combining host forces with Sarah Sassafrass and Jeffrey Scott, the idea was to collide each of our most precious social pockets into one massive North Carolina Holiday Extravaganza. I arrived that Saturday at RDU airport at 11:10 AM, feeling quite sprightly in spite of my 50 hour work week and 5:30 AM train ride from my apartment to JFK. After meeting my father at the baggage claim I instructed him (as we agreed) to take me promptly to Starbucks, then to the spa for an eyebrow wax, and then to the nearest Moe’s for a taco salad. It was the perfect entree into the Triangle after such prolonged absence (although I may regret for weeks to come the fact that I did not consume one morsel of Bojangle’s while I was in town). Following lunch, daddy-o dropped me at the St. Kat K-Mart (AKA Party City) where I met Sass and Katy to buy tinsel, a disco ball, costume accessories and miles upon miles of garland. Of course no one place was fully stocked with all our needs–one employee even served me a big plate of attitude over some twinkly lights–so we had to hit up a Target and a Big Lots and a Taco Bell before going home to decorate.

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The rest of the day was spent taping black streamers into a web in the Lexington Drive hallway, covering every visible corner of every inanimate object with garland and taping an entire wall floor-to-ceiling in aluminum foil (for portrait backdrop purposes, of course). Around 7:30 we received a pleasant surprise when two girls from Red Bull rang the doorbell, said they saw our party on facebook and donated an absurd 48 free Red Bulls to the cause. I was sure it was a gift from the party gods as I was already on my last leg and I wasn’t even dressed yet.

Proving that you can lead a bitch to water but you can’t make her drink, I decided to have a sizable portion (the entire thing) of what someone called a “less than potent” weed brownie. Next thing I knew, my friends were already arriving and I was applying liquid eyeliner with rickety hands, one shoe on and my face nearly plastered to the mirror. Was I already losing it? I didn’t care. Somebody hand me my curling iron.

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(the final version of my outfit that lasted about five minutes)

The rest was a whirlwind of fantastic fuckery. People I hadn’t seen in months, some in years, came out of the proverbial woodwork to dance in our tiny, iridescent living room. Winston Filet and Princess Hannah emerged from their influenza death beds to serve holiday disco realness. Haters became lovers, enemies became friends. Someone took a shot of formaldehyde from a jar of preserved goat brains (this was a half-horror party, after all) and vomited all over the carport. The police even stopped by for a bit around midnight and refused to dissipate despite my clear and audible instructions, leaving one cop standing disregarded at the entrance like the opening scene of Home Alone. We could not be stopped.

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And then, I don’t know if it was the brownie or the natural exhaustion or the vodka I’d been mixing with champagne, but I was out. By 2 am (and that’s being generous), I had fallen asleep in Justin’s bed with my clothes still on, leaving the over-caffeinated partygoers under the supervision of my co-hosts.

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I awoke the next morning in a beer-stained ball, forgetting for a minute whether I’d even made it to my own party. But as the southern sunlight glimmered off empty bottles of Andre and strangers still slept on the living room floor, I picked up Sarah’s camera and declared another a success. I couldn’t remember much at all, but it looked fabulous in the pictures.

Ew York (have I used this before?)

Good afternoon everybody. It’s a bit of a strange day, as I come to you from the inside of a Subway restaurant on 26th street. I’m exhausted from staying up late last night eating frosted mini wheats and taking graphology quizzes and trying to fix my nails.

Over the past couple of months my mom and I have started this tradition where every time I come home to North Carolina we bond by getting our nails done. I got my first set of gel nails when I visited after the 4th of July this year (okay not the first set. the first was when I got them as a joke when I was 18 and then immediately went to Bonnaroo where I snapped each of them off after filling them with mud and sand. That was a rowdy summer). This time, though, I decided I really liked having nails as in the four years following that particular Bonnaroo I have tried to play on the spectrum from a perhaps less “feminine” character to the other extreme and back again (please refer to your Schechner texts). There is of course room for comment on the fact that having plastic melted on the top of each of my fingers severely limited my dexterity. I would have to pick up things like bobby pins and quarters off the floor by pressing my finger pad on them until they stuck. I had to pretty much entirely relearn how to type. But once I got the hang of having them I kind of felt empowered. I was pretty into them. I felt like a badass opening my tallboy with a nearby screwdriver so I didn’t break my nail. I mean after spending one summer in New York I could probably run a half marathon in a pair of heels. You don’t have to let looking good slow you down.

The problem with adding fake nails and blonde Redken dye to my ever evolving look is that they are serious cosmetic commitments. I don’t mind this when I have the time and money. I was recently discussing with my hair stylist/possible future sister-in-law Hannah how part of the appeal of making these commitments is the fact that you’re forced to go to the salon every month. I love the salon. I drink champagne, I lay my problems on other women who are stuck in the chair next to me. It’s an all around good time. For a couple of months after moving here I was able to keep up this charade by returning home to NC and making a day of it with Mom. But going home is expensive. And New York spas are expensive. I didn’t want to pay $45 for a fill every three weeks. I can’t. It even costs like $30 to go to a salon and have your nails removed, so I set out to do it myself. One bowl of acetone, two episodes of Arrested Development and about three hours of scraping later, my stumpy childlike fingers were back, and more agile than ever. Albeit my nail beds have been pretty much destroyed. I recommend not trying this at home.

While that night I managed to not knock myself out with manicure fumes, there was another disturbing odor in my apartment that was more relentless. Let me begin by saying I love Bushwick. It’s a nice place to live. I don’t even mind seeing rats outside from time to time. I have cats, so there’s not really a chance of a rodent infestation in my home. The problem I have is with the rat poison (and not for PETA reasons. I’m all for animal rights but I’d just assume get the RATS out of here however you have to). It’s because the traps the landlord puts out by the garbage are the little hexagonal rat garages where they run in, eat the poison, and then bring it back to their little nests or whatever. Conveniently, one of the nests is through a minuscule crack in the foundation of our building magically navigable to GIANT vermin who then crawl into the shoddy structure where they proceed to die off. This brought a smell that can only be described as rotting flesh because, well, it was rotting flesh and because rotting flesh smells like nothing else on earth. We complained to our landlord who reassured us with the comforting assertion that soon the carcass of whatever had died would dry out and the smell would disappear. I believe this has started to happen but I also believe that we have gotten somewhat used to the odor, which is upsetting to me on a lot of levels.

Mind you, I live in a fairly nice apartment. It’s one of those renovated buildings in Bushwick where all the appliances are stainless steel and the bathroom has black marble and a deep square tub. The problem is that only the inside of the apartment was gutted and refurbished. The outer structure remains as decrepit as it ever was, and I’m assuming it’s fairly old. Not to mention we live on the first floor, which means anything that crawls in the foundation to die is going to do so directly under us. And then came the flood. One lucky day this month there was a delightful mini-monsoon that somehow concentrated itself only on the central parts of Brooklyn. After it destroyed my roommates’ rooms (two kind and thankfully low-maintenance guys that live in the basement of our duplex) we had the water pumped out. The next day, thanks to my curious kittens, we started finding maggots in the basement. Maggots are no joke. There were little pods in the corners of the rooms which we guessed were egg sacks or cocoons of some kind. We assumed all this came from inside the burst drain pipe that had caused the flood, because a storm drain is kind of like a sewer and why wouldn’t there be maggots in it? Two nights later my roommate comes running up the stairs drunk at 3 am in his underwear with scratches all over his arms, burning sage and screaming that his room is haunted. I wasn’t sure, but the whole situation was definitely curious. Everything’s been getting particularly Amityville around there lately, especially since I started seeing flies on every surface in the house this week. Of course, that could just be because of the dead animals in the wall. To top it all off I was forced to kill a cockroach the size of a Twinkie last night because all my cats seemed to want to do was slap it around a bit. It’s starting to look more and more like I’ll have to get married soon, not because this is a man’s job, but because it needs to be somebody the fuck else’s but mine.

My incessant nightmares haven’t helped my suspicions of a haunting in Bushwick. There was one where our civilization was built on an Islamic burial ground and the buildings crumbled into the ocean and everyone drowned. No big deal. Another, less gruesome one involved me getting left at the altar on my wedding day. Upon realizing this I collapsed to the ground in slow motion, later going to the deserter’s trailer to get my belongings back and getting chased away in broad daylight with a shotgun. I barely survived.

Two nights ago I had another apocalyptic dream about me and another girl, possibly two, both strangely young. We’re traveling through sterile futuristic subway tunnels on some sort of mission to save the world. After some silent cosmic event, we make it outside to the sunlight and everything seems fine until one of the girls suddenly starts emitting electricity from her body. She can direct it at anything she wants and I am one of these things. I don’t get hurt but I am instead suspended at least 15 feet off the ground by a steady stream of lightning (this may have something to do with the fact that I interviewed the band Tesla Boy that day).

But last night’s dream was especially disturbing, if slightly humorous. I was on another mission to look for things in my house which was now mysteriously located in middle of the woods. The house, however, had been demolished and in its place I found an old elevated railroad suspended in the trees. Then I saw that hanging from the tracks were the legs and torsos of bodies that I guess had been hit and torn apart by the train. The body parts were dressed in Aeropostale and there was no blood to be seen anywhere, just severed limbs. I continued looking for my hair straightener. My friend that was with me said, “Well there goes our weekend.” I mean who writes this stuff?

Lest we find ourselves struggling with meaning yet again, I present you with a bit of positive news: I finally had sex to my Babymaker ~Part II~ playlist, from start to finish, something I had been planning on since its inception earlier this summer. It was a well-deserved turn of events considering my most recent prior sexual encounter involved me woman-on-topping a very drunk person until they began vomiting unceasingly between the bed and the wall, after which I slept on the floor for three hours (at press time this person and I are still friends as none of the vomit got on me and he as cleared up that my naked body was not the source of his nausea). Of course I walked home at 8:30 am on a Sunday with my minimal clothing inside out past pretty much every church-going Brooklynite between my house and the East River, but that part I’m used to.

Other than that I’ve been hanging out with brother Winston and the aforementioned Hannah who live down the street now. Having similar maintenance and employment problems of their own they have decided on a remedy of frequently drinking. We never really go anywhere. The most we’ve done is get fucked up enough in random bars to cover an entire car of the L in peanut shells. But I have seen some more of the city’s hidden beauty along the way.

Since I’m going to be 23 next month I’ve decided to practice being old by saying no to a lot of invitations for weeknight partying and stay home to get some much needed alone time/introspection/self improvement (yeah I’ve mostly just been eating in my bed). I did go to some random thing at some random recording studio last Saturday where I met some random amazing people and found a random tiny sparkling cowgirl hat (thinking of getting a tattoo that says ‘random’). I then wore the tiny hat for the rest of my night despite sweating a LOT in that one spot on my head while dancing at 285 kent until 3 am. After I abruptly decided I wasn’t having ANY fun anymore, I burst out of the building and disappeared, said a ceremonial goodbye to the tiny glittery hat and made friends with a cricket that I considered my spiritual guide. Not really realizing where I was going, I ended up getting sort of lost and taking a $13 cab, the availability of which I considered a “sign from god.”

(cool pic of me being completely insane)

(i distinctly remember taking this picture so that i would always remember this hat as i had for whatever reason decided to leave it behind)

(this is a “picture” i took of the cricket/buddha)

(me being sad about the hat and the cricket for some reason. i also have eyelash glue all over my face.)

The next day I dealt with my hangover by traveling to a beauty supply store in Woodside, Queens so we could try to disguise my prominent, rapidly growing roots as ombre and stop dying my hair for a while. You have to take three trains to get there and the beauty supply store didn’t have jack shit but I found Woodside oddly enjoyable. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed  being able to see that much of the sky. All the houses had front yards that were filled with plants. I found this mind-blowingly quaint, even if low flying planes did blast overhead every ten minutes. But it was seeing the shitty highways and the shitty empty streets of a shitty tiny town that made me homesick. Rushing to the nearest Taco Bell in the late afternoon, pre-autumn sunlight I felt like I was in Raleigh again, running from the bus stop on Western Boulevard. But the cheap thrill of my cheese quesadilla and potato soft taco faded away and I noticed the soda fountain drain overflowing with Diet Pepsi, the flattened packets of taco sauce strewn across the sticky brown tile floor. It did remind me of home.

It was at that moment I realized everywhere is kind of gross. And that comforted me.

HOODRATS IN SPACE

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)

 

xx

oh, sweet deuces

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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