The Pains and Pleasures of Moving, Moving On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So get a Tinder.”

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

…or maybe not.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s on.”

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

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

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

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

“Because…I’m married.”

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

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

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

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

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

Listen to the trainwreck here!

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

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

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

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

It was 10:30.

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

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

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

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

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

I finally had a reason to stop listening to Anti.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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?

Hey, Could I Bum a House?

So today’s post is going to be outlined by a series of photographs. This is for all my illiterate hoes who need not be discounted, and for those of you who really want to get the full experience of last week’s nonsense. Just to give you a little backstory, I’m living in this weird/adorable nest/treehouse thing in northern Greenpoint right now (you can see photos on my flickr, or on that tab up there that says ‘photos’), but sometime in the next 24 hours my ‘sublessor’ (yeah, I’m a lawyer) is returning home which will effectively put me out on the street. For the purposes of earning street cred this will actually be very fulfilling for me, as I’ve always wanted to roam around the city with nothing but a backpack and an ipod nano (which I am inexplicably still carrying around despite having an iphone…probably my need to maintain a “quirky” and somewhat “ignorant” relationship with technology) and sleeping on the couches of cranky gay men everywhere.

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

I’ll be refilling those six suitcases I was telling you about for the rest of the night. Meanwhile my shit is EVERYWHERE and I figured I’d use some of it to help me finish the story of How Much Fun I Had That First Month in New York Before I Was Just Some Homeless Crackhead With an Internship.

(as you can see i am super organized and i give all the fucks in the world)

(some fucking plastic ass tupperware shit wrapped in a repurposed piece of garbage)

One of the first things you learn as a broke idiot in any city is that sometimes you’ve got to suck it up and bring your lunch from home.  Spending 10 dollars every day on a lox and cream cheese bagel (or 12 dollars on some Chipotle that’ll make you shit your pants) quickly becomes a luxury that you can only dream of one day affording and meanwhile those mashed potatoes and, like, scrambled eggs leftover from last night are starting looking gourmet as fuck. I realized I can spend $20 every couple of weeks at Trader Joe’s buying the bare minimum of produce and essential nutrients (a la beans and rice) and as long as I make it home at least once a day (a thing that has become increasingly rare) I don’t have to worry about throwing hella bills at a sack of trans fats just to survive. Sometimes you have to get creative. I literally just made a bowl of tuna, vegenaise, chick peas and paprika and ate it with pita bread (perhaps you think this is a low point but it was pretty damn delicious). Sadly, I haven’t been making it back to Greenpoint as much as I like, which explains why I’ve been shoplifting so much on the Upper West Side. You have to save money wherever you can, because you know as well as I do that as soon as the first cent drops in your bank account you’ll be ordering 40s of Ballantine and a personal large pizza to your room without batting an eye. Shit is costly, bruh.

(homeless women and men should always have the proper accoutrement for doin’ it on their person)

At this point you all know that I am very open about my sex life. For a second I considered that showing my ACTUAL BIRTH CONTROL PACKET (gasp!) on the internet was a little much. Then I remembered that at least 6 of my best friends growing up have pictures of their chunky newborns all over their facebook pages. I can do whatever the fuck I want. NOW, if you don’t want to have a baby–a perfectly respectable life choice for people of any age–it’s super important to keep your birth control at arm’s reach 100% of the time. Missing pills can not only get you pregnant, but it can make you have your period for an entire month (which can really ruin the reason you’re taking them in the first place, am I right?). Maybe taking my pill with a sip of lemon Four Loko outside of a bodega at 11 pm is not a good look, but if you can breast-feed in public (something I think is totally okay), I can make sure I don’t have some dude’s raggedy ass kid before I go to the club. This is what they mean by “drink responsibly,” right? And as for the condoms, you don’t have to explain to me your reason for not using them. Oh believe me, I get it…they’re a fucking pain in the ass. And if you’re getting regularly tested and you trust your partner, that’s a choice you fully have the right to make. I’m just saying–I’ve never had the Gonz but I hear it’s kinda gross. And I’m trying real hard to remember that.

(there is more bacteria on this dollar than around the rim of my toilet seat, I guarantee it.)

Oh look! A dollar! Like, a pretty substantial portion of my total savings (more than I care to admit)! The problem is, when I woke up and found this on the floor next to my bed I was kind of afraid to touch it. One low-key evening after drinking a bottle of Welch’s grape juice disguised as red wine, Reid, my new friend Kate and I went to The Woods for some shots. I still don’t really know how I feel about this place considering everyone is like 99% wack and the bathrooms are modeled after the waterboarding rooms in Guantanamo Bay. One time, though, I found a pair of awesome leather gloves on the sidewalk outside of the bar and I keep thinking I might find some more free stuff every time I go. Also anywhere that has a hut that sells grilled cheeses a stone’s throw from the dance floor is worth a look or two. This particular night, though, not one of the gangly losers in snapbacks was running to buy me a grilled cheese. Once it started pouring rain, the whole place turned into a sodden, rancid hellhole I couldn’t escape despite (or perhaps due to) the barrel of tequila I’d consumed. I can’t say I had a horrible time. The music was pretty good (Azealia Banks is the DJing equivalent of a free space at this point), and right before I left I found a dollar on the ground! This dollar. This dollar that I am now afraid to touch because it is actually covered in beer and mud and toilet water and probably poop. I don’t know exactly what my plan is for this guy, but don’t be surprised if later tonight I am literally…actually…washing a dollar in the fucking sink.

(some kind of playing card for a game i’m assuming is both very fun and kind of a waste of time–just smoke the shit, you know?)

I don’t know how this got in my purse. I believe I found it in the studio behind Reid’s apartment where, I kid you not, we pregamed for Anorexxxtapussy by chasing swigs of Patrick’s Georgi with my Four Loko. “Just put a little loko in the back of your throat and you can’t even taste it!” This night is a complete fucking blur. Once we arrived at sugar hill it was as if everyone was really distracted by something…but nothing was really happening. I think this is what it’s like to be completely wasted in a room full of strangers. Here are some pictures from that night.

(they call me lana del razorblades)

(reid is super into jezus)

(patrick giving his best gothic, but really he just looks like my uncle danny in the late 90s after he just took out the speedboat)

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

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

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(you really can’t let yourself be stinkin’)

I hate to say this is true, but for a good two…maybe three days after Anorexxxtapussy or whatever it’s called, I was wearing variations of the same outfit and trying not to smell like Bigfoot’s dead grandma in weather that was quickly approaching 100 degrees. During this time I decided to get really into “pajama goth,” which mostly just meant loose layers of fishnet, chiffon, and Rick Owens tanks I borrowed from Skye. This allowed me to move freely and comfortably while not really sweating all that much, but it’s nice to touch up yo face when you get a chance. You really never know when you might meet someone cute and idk, maybe they will be super into the “swamp thing” look, but I like to be prepared just in case.

You can plan all you want to take your chiffon out to new and exciting places, but you might just end up at the Standard anyway. That’s what happened last Sunday. Somehow our intoxication snowballed extra quickly that night. I really don’t know how things get so ratchet so fast.

(here is moe defying gravity. a clear resemblance to some acrobatics i pulled back in nc, pictured below)

(I have a college degree, btw)

(have you ever seen anything so beautiful in your entire life?)

(i am not actually peeing in this picture. some asshole threw a water balloon at me and knocked my pants down. what an asshole.)

(this is how you know you’ve had a good night)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(free shit from The View that i have yet to actually sample)

Believe it or not, about 6 hours after snapping that sad picture of Patrick on the toilet, I accompanied him to fill our free seats at The View (we have friends and family in relatively high places and that’s all I can say). The special guest was Jimmy Fallon which is why we got all these free goodies. All in all this experience was surreal and bizarre as fuck. My palms kept sweating a lot because I was thrown by being in the same room as Whoopi Goldberg, and also because I was about to drop dead from the after-effects of last night’s bottle service. This made it somewhat awkward for me when I ended up shaking her hand. Actually, the whole experience was about 50/50 awkward and totally rad.

(just chillin with some fellow viewers)

Other than all of this, the past week has been spent trying to find a place for me and my cute kittens to live. I’m doing reasonably well staying positive even though sometimes it’s hard not to have a tantrum when you’re on the J train at 9 am on a Saturday only to reach a roach motel that costs $800 a month. “HOW THE FUCK DO YOU EVEN SAY KOSCIUSZKO STREET” *screams through tears at a gentleman eating a churro who doesn’t speak a word of English*

I’ll keep you updated on what it’s like living on futons and eating popcorn for every meal. Right now I’m of the belief that you can totally be a fabulous, homeless badass. Let’s see how long this delusion lasts.

By the way, follow me on twitter @katstkat and on instagram @catdookie for constant updates. I promise I won’t depress you.


Sext Me Like You Mean It

Confession time. When I was little I was really into AOL chat rooms. Every few nights after Lizzie Mcguire went off and my parents went to sleep, I’d spend a good 2 or 3 hours having conversations with the alter egos of sex offenders on multiple continents, lying about my own A/S/L in what I thought was a clever ruse for manipulating teenage boys. I never really considered that this might be a fairly unsafe way for an 11 year old girl to spend her time, and despite my shock and disgust at the picture of that (I kid you not) three foot long black dong that someone sent me one evening, I didn’t possess the common sense to look away. Luckily, albeit mortifying, my parents eventually hinted that they “knew what was going on,” and this whole charade was put to end before I ended up on To Catch a Predator or in a real life version of Hard Candy (you decide if being pursued by crazed child molester is worse than being compared to Ellen Page).

Fast forward about five years, when I was the last non-deaf/mute person on planet earth without a cell phone. This unfortunate circumstance, combined with my inability to have  vigorous sex with my boyfriend on all surfaces at all times, led to some seriously risky landline phone sex that I wish I could say was never overheard by someone blood related to me. I must have really liked this guy, because actual voice-on-voice phone sex is a serious commitment in the 10th grade. I wasn’t just telling some boy on AIM that I wanted to see his peen; I was exposing myself to the very awkward, very uncomfortable “oohs” and “ahs” of inexperienced 16-year-old fantasy. This was some next-level shit.

But I am an adult now, and my relationships have gotten a lot more sophisticated. Like, I have real-life sex sometimes with people my own age. I’ve been in one or two semi-healthy serious commitment thingamajigs and managed to make it out alive. And for the times when real human contact fails to deliver, I have a cell phone that sends both text messages and one-ish megapixel photographs at the speed of light to people who have remote sexual interest in me. Recently I realized that this, beyond all other forms of communication, might be my favorite way to interact with other humans.

Sexting is the low maintenance younger sister of the Actual Relationship. All of the basic elements of desire and intent are in place, and your knowledge of the person on the other end is usually at least one step above anonymity. Whether the two of you would actually “do it” if given the opportunity depends on your respective commitments and how attractive the two of you actually find each other. There could be some major tectonic something-or-other keeping the two of you from what you are certain would be a physically and spiritually enlightening experience for all. Or perhaps one, maybe neither, of you would ever actually go through with it and the other is drunk and in need of attention. I have probably been on every side of each of these scenarios, and this is the first of many reasons why sexting is such a beautiful concept: It is truly of no consequence how the two of you actually feel about each other, as sexual partners or as individuals. All that is necessary for a decent sext exchange is faint interest in having someone describe the current state of their anatomy to you in explicit detail, your willingness to reciprocate, and the basic understanding that neither of you is going to find and rape the other.

The second thing that sets sexting apart from real courtship thus making it infinitely better is the ability to participate while looking like shit. One of my favorite pastimes is sitting around in sweatpants and a layer of mild body odor with my stupid hair in an amorphous bun on top of my head and talking to an old flame (or random hookup) about the sex dreams we had about each other the previous night. It would be hard for you to convince me that there is anything better than watching Workaholics and eating Cheetos in a state that would usually make you hate yourself, but every few minutes having your ego stroked by someone sending you emoticons about your clitoris. In fact, you can pretty much sext during anything, no matter the importance. I, like many, have been known to get quite verbose when drunk at parties. But I can also say I’ve sent a few delicious tidbits on a break at work or under the table during dinner with my parents. I mean this shit can last all day.

It gets a little more complicated once naked pictures come into play. Maybe some of you aren’t really “into” naked pics because you always worry deep down about what people will see on your Behind the Music one day, which I would understand if it were still 1995. But it’s 2012, and if you don’t have at least one naked picture floating around you must be doing something very wrong. I encourage you to unleash a couple nudes into the universe, at least before you become someone’s mother. If you ever become famous enough that anyone but the recipient in question ever gives a shit, it will only help your career. The only reason anyone ever defends Chris Brown is because of how big his dick is. Just think, if you look good naked, you can get away with disfiguring someone’s face. I’m pretty sure it won’t matter that you showed someone.

I usually like to start with something tasteful yet tantalizing, maybe a shot from the shoulders-up with my mouth open a little bit or a bra strap hanging off. Those are usually pretty easy and inconspicuous to take yourself if you’re in a public bathroom. If you’re feeling in the mood, a good nip-slip or two never hurt anybody. Then, as things progress and you guys get drunker, depending on how much you trust this creep, you might want to send a full body shot. Who am I to judge? But I will say, they are very hard to take yourself. You may need five tequila shots and a very good friend to help you out with this one. Who knows what you might get sent in return. I once dated a guy who sent me pictures of things he’d drawn on his boner with sharpie. The possibilities are endless.

People often ask me, Kat, what happens when you have more than one sexting partner? Are you expected to be monogamous? Is it tacky to reuse the same naked pictures with multiple people? The answer, of course, is I don’t know. I have never been very good at “not being controversial when it comes to doing what I want sexually and otherwise.” The line between flirting and being a tramp is always a blurry one, both sides of which I’ve been told I belong. But I say use your discretion. I probably wouldn’t give the impression that you actually like someone if you’re sending jpegs of your cooch to all his friends. But if two poor schmucks hit you up on the same night and you’ve got last week’s fabulous titty pic waiting in the wings, it’s not illegal to re-send it once or twice. Those things don’t grow on trees. You can always save the really special photos for that really special person.

Or better still, you could actually have sex with them.

That Awkward Moment Where You Lived with Your Parents

While being back home may be a temporary stint for me, living with your parents for any period of time as an adult can make your daily life more obnoxious in an infinite number of ways. The simple tasks you had performed so easily during college (or that time you were a drug dealer in the years after high school) can be extremely difficult to execute within those disturbingly familiar walls. A quick look at some of the things that have become nearly impossible to carry out since I returned to the nest:

1. Speaking like I normally would. I’m not sure why, but in the years that I was away for college, my vocabulary went from “saying shit and fuck a healthy, normal, enormous amount of times per day,” to “I actually have a case of verbal Tourrette’s that cannot be contained whatsoever. SHIT-BALLS I FUCKING STUBBED MY FUCKING TOE.” This, of course, always shocks my mother, who to this day (god love her) is still convinced that eventually all her teaching will pay off and I’ll miraculously have one or more manners.

2. Sleeping in. The other day at around 11:30 AM while smothering a headache underneath the pillows of my ever-so-classy bunk bed, my mother came in, shook me awake and told me to look for jobs. “It’s AFTER ELEVEN,” she urged. Personally, I would have felt perfectly justified and morally sound in sleeping for another two hours or so, but “Mom, I’m hungover because my friend from high school came over last night after you fell asleep and we drank a handle of Bacardi that we found in her trunk,” doesn’t really roll off the tongue so well on a Tuesday morning.

3. The actual process of getting drunk. Actually, before I had the “legal trouble” I recently acquired, it was pretty easy to share a few bottles of wine and champagne with my mother while watching three-hour Barbara Streisand movies. Now that she realizes I’m no longer the innocent little girl she mistakenly believes I once was, I’m afraid she’ll think I’m a free-loading alcoholic for drinking a Corona with dinner. Usually I can wait until they go to sleep. Inevitably, though, the concept of drinking alone at my parents house is just too depressing to bear, and I never make it past the first beer.

4. Buying Marijuana. If I had a car this would be much easier, or if we didn’t live in a suburban monstrosity of a house in the heart of America’s safest, most tree-free town. But that’s just not the case. Of course I wish I didn’t have to meet a dealer in the bathroom of a Bennigan’s while out to dinner with my family, but after all that stress of trying to find someone who will actually deliver you weed, you kinda need it.

5. Smoking Marijuana. Or anything for that matter. We have a screened-in porch on my deck (because what are we, poor?) which makes for a delightful smoking area during the evening hours. But even after jumping through flaming hoops to find the smallest amount of bud, it seems like things just continue to go wrong. Of course tonight is the night that my parents’ insomnia kicks into gear, welding them to re-runs of Two and a Half Men until the witching hour. Also, where the fuck is one single lighter in this house? Is it sketchy for me to be rifling through all the kitchen drawers at 11 pm? I find a grill torch in the cabinet and decide to smoke in the crawl space of my sister’s closet.

6. Finding one single vegetarian thing to eat. Oh look, about 50 bags of frozen Tyson’s chicken nuggets, leftover beef stew, some Chef Boyardee, chicken flavored Ramen noodles, and six packs of hotdogs. GUESS I’LL BE EATING THIS CAN OF GREAT NORTHERN BEANS.

7. Watching TV and getting on Tumblr all day long. “Honey, shouldn’t you be applying for jobs? Can you fold the laundry? You should clean your room it looks HORRIFYING. Look at this shitty job posting I found you that you would never want to apply for in a million years! Did you see it? I know it says ‘Janitor at local TV station’ but that could look good on your resume! Are you depressed?” No, mom. No, to all of this. Now go away so I can reblog pictures of naked people.

8. Avoiding “family outings.” Contrary to what you might think, I don’t actually go to Irish chain restaurants with my sister and parents because I love being surrounded by drunk people in their 50s while silently stuffing my face with spinach-artichoke dip. As thrilling as that is, I’d much rather be eating an entire pizza alone in my room with my cat. But what am I going to say? “No, I’d rather be pathetic,” and proceed spend 20 dollars on my own meal? Please.

9. Entertaining suitors. The other day when I was casually hanging out with someone I would casually like to bone, I thought I would try to sneak him up to my bedroom for for the ol’ quick-and-risky after he drove me home. I barely made it through the door of my garage before hearing my mother’s voice calling my name from the next room. Of course, my perfect gentleman scuffled into the night before having to drunkenly introduce himself at four the morning. I went to bed feeling grossly unsatisfied and didn’t hear from the guy for days.

And last but not least,

10. Masturbating. Am I right?