’13 til infinity

deal wit it

“I wanna blog outside today!” I thought, after waking up at the crack of 12:30 to the smell of hot piss pouring through my window. One entire tube of SPF 100+ sunscreen in my eye, one makeshift lawnchair desk and one Carrera Bakery iced coffee later, here I am frying away tearfully in an outdoor sauna of cat urine and Colt 45. In other words, I reaaally needed a thigh tan.
Now that summer is in full swing and the first hydrants have been opened on the streets of Bushwick, all bets are officially off. Of course, it’s had a bit of a rough start.  Despite the fact that it’s been raining almost every day for a fucking month and the fact that I have no real job security (I’m referring to it as “freelancing”), these past few weeks I’ve been out of control and chilling like a trust fund baby.
Towards the end of last month, when I wasn’t sitting alone in my apartment watching old Parks and Rec episodes and sucking cat hair out of the air with my dustbuster, I spent most of my time doing #dabs with my new BF, finding creative new ways to entertain ourselves sexually (being spanked with a rubber chicken and singing Unchained Melody with a penis in my mouth both come to mind). As the season was coming to a close at my job, I was also trying to balance my heavy work load with a LOT of heavy drinking. I began one particularly eventful evening by transforming my cable-friendly maxi skirt into a club-friendly mini dress after work, using a few accessories from the prop closet…including a large coffee cup of alcohol.
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As the cab approached our destination I guzzled my cup’s contents, forgetting it was mostly if not completely full of gin. I was reaching for my ID when it became clear I was about to lose my lunch, dinner and dessert, so I motioned for Talia to follow me around the corner. The next thing I knew she was watching me puke on the sidewalk as I held my own hair back and gave the thumbs up to passing cars. Afterwards I winked and strutted into the bar where I would spend the rest of my night buying beers and shots for myself, giving them away to strangers, and attempting to twerk* in Talia’s face to Lil Kim’s “Magic Stick.” I was in true form.
*note: I can’t twerk. But let’s be real. Neither can Miley.

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Finally the time had come: My Big Things were stepping off their respective megabuses to finally join me in the city. Some for the summer, some forever. Their company is invaluable to me, even though the photos from our first night together seem to indicate that I was alone, having a somewhat awful time at a Hot 97 party and what appears to be a quite excellent time at the Mcdonald’s on Delancey street.
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I had 10 days off between seasons at work and I was spending them the only way I knew how. Alcoholic smoothies in the middle of the day, shopping for accessories on Knickerbocker avenue, tanning in Central Park, sweating my ass off at Bossa Nova Club and eating 1500 calories of shitty food for every meal.

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I keep telling myself I’m going to work out this summer and lose that bit of cellulite right below my asscheeks I affectionately refer to as my Second Butt, but I can’t seem to make time for it what with all the drinking and sleeping and laying in the sun. I did, however, attempt to mix exercise with productivity by weeding my entire backyard to make it Barbecue Ready. This included a hefty amount of manual labor. I even scooped the animal carcasses off my patio once and for all, and even managed to bleach away the dark spots their bodies left on the concrete…sort of. This allowed for Patrick and I to attempt to relax in the grass on multiple occasions, only to drown ourselves in sweat. Tanning is miserable most of the time, unless of course you have Bacardi lemonade and a pizza from Tony’s.
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Before the string of nightlife bummers that was to come shortly, we managed to have one amazing night that began with, like, an artisan margarita and taco party in a gorgeous Williamsburg loft (complete in typical fashion with discussions about the state of Azealia Banks’ career and the end of last season’s GIRLS), followed by a trek to an unknown salsa bar with espresso tequila shots. This led to a bizarre stairwell discovery and ended with a refreshing banana bowl at the Marcy stop while wearing a pair of jeans as a jacket.
fab exorcistIMG_9152The risk you take when you follow the scene is that the hype and expectations for the event will outweigh any amount of fun you could possibly have. The crowd will probably be full of try-hards and there will be too many people and too long of a line and the drinks will be too expensive, and the headlining act won’t come on until four hours after you arrive. You will end up leaving early, having gotten dressed to the nines for absolutely nothing except a great selfie you took on your way to the club. The highlight of your night will be eating a Filet o’ Fish cross-legged in a gutter in the no man’s land between the West Village and Tribeca. You could end up like me the night I tried to see Lil Kim at Westgay. But, the selfie was great.
IMG_9193Our sad state of affairs continued in the form of relentless torrential downpours for the rest of the week. The only saving grace was in the form of my beloved friend Bill who had come to the city to crash for his birthday week. Patrick and I reluctantly followed him to meet some friends at a bar in the aptly named HELL’S KITCHEN. The best part of the evening was the drag show at Industry (which isn’t saying much). The second best was the sushi, I guess?
IMG_9249So as not to disrupt the theme of the week (shoddy dining and gay bars and never ending rain) the next day we went to Bay Leaf in Williamsburg. The service was terrible. The food took forever. They charged us $22 for what turned out to be a bottle of Barefoot. Then just as we were about to storm out I accidentally set a plastic bag on fire and it melted all over the table.

IMG_9262The next part of the evening was our private party in the back room of Fada complete with $5 cocktails and Winston’s beach disco set. Afterwards we braved the weather and spent the remainder of the evening drinking cheap beers at the Metropolitan, but not before I got splashed in the face by a speeding 4Runner.
IMG_9269If they were hiding it at all before, this much rain really brings out the absurdity in New Yorkers. The other day I saw homeless man washing his feet in a street puddle, which is my second most favorite homeless man moment to the time I saw a guy drop a slice of pizza on the ground and then drunkenly lie down on the sidewalk to continue eating it. Whether or not to be amused by these things is a constant moral dilemma of mine. Meanwhile, any time I see a stray cat, raining or not, I spend 45 minutes crying in an alleyway. But OH IT’S GOOD TO LAUGH AGAIN.
IMG_9282But perhaps no shitty night compares to what I dealt with last week, when I took my pink boobs and YOLO belt out to Bossa Nova for Physical Therapy and Slava. Standing under the AC unit on the crowded dance floor, my friends and I took a tiny amount of what we thought was molly.
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Turns out it was speed! I didn’t sleep for three days! It was by far one of the most nerve racking, frustrating, miserable experiences I have ever had to date, next to that time I drank two bottles of robitussin freshman year of college and I held on to the edges of my bed for 36 hours waiting for the spins to stop before Greg came and dumped me in a bathtub of ice water.
I did, however, have a beautiful morning before slipping into my amphetamine freak out.
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The following week I went back to work, 10-7 office days to prepare for next season. I dumped about 5 iced coffees per day onto my shriveling insides just to get through it, but when the week came to an end and nearly all of Team Big Things (minus a few essential members I DID NOT FORGET YOU) got together for SHADE #2 and took this beautiful family photo that will likely be my Christmas card come fall.
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This is how we chill.

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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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