I Am Trying To Become A Person Who Does Yoga Now

yoga

I Am Trying To Be a Person Who Does Yoga Now

Last Wednesday at work, after guzzling some boxed coffee at a mandatory HR seminar, I took a bathroom break. While wiping my ass, I felt a familiar shock across my upper back and through my neck. I had pulled my back again.

Every movement above the waist became excruciating. I was miserable, but sadly, not surprised. This has happened to me every couple of months for the past year. Constant pain behind my shoulders. Cracking along my neck every time I take a deep breath. At least 30 minutes of pure discomfort when I wake up in the morning. And that’s just on a regular day. Then, when I least expect it—snap. Waddling around for 5 days and screaming and whining and cursing at Kos and Gon for not cleaning out their own litter box.

I cannot. Live. Like this. Anyfuckinmore.

So let’s break this down.

What’s causing it:

What isn’t? I live in New York, a city that would cease to exist without constant anger and anxiety. I am naturally prone to stress and hold all this physical tension in my shoulders. I drink 2-3 black coffees per day. I sleep on the World’s Shittiest Mattress that I bought from IKEA in 2012 for like $100 when I moved to the city for an unpaid internship. For 9 hours a day, I do accounting, human resources, office management and executive assistance for a design firm in lower Manhattan. When I’m not doing that (and sometimes when I am) I do improv and standup, write and produce comedy videos and live shows, work on my screenplay, work my beauty blog, and work on my forthcoming book from Lit Riot Press. Sometimes, I try to blog here.

This leaves very little time for relaxing and/or taking care of myself. The majority of the social events I attend are events I’m producing or performing in. I get about 7 hours of sleep a night (very interrupted, thanks kitters). This is disgusting, but I often will not shower for days at a time because I’m only home for the time it takes to get just enough sleep that I don’t have a meltdown the next day. I usually wake up late, miss my train by 30 seconds and have to push into the next one where I ride to work in a Tuna Can of Stress and arrive about 7 minutes late. And despite being busy 24/7 and completely overwhelmed by my own schedule, I still have almost no disposable income to speak of.

I am not even going to mention. The news.

ANyWAY YeAH I GOT TENSION.

What I can do about it:

Around this time last year I threw my neck out the worst I ever had. I had to miss two days of work, which was really frustrating and also annoying af because being alone is super unhelpful when you CAN’T FUCKING MOVE. So I went to get acupuncture. I saw this guy named Bart who was extremely chill, like to a disturbing degree, and he told me to stop drinking so much coffee and also to wear a scarf on the subway? Something about the air conditioning making your neck muscles tighten up? IDK. I had two appointments and they were in this open room where other people were also getting, um, punctured. Both times I ended up falling asleep and feeling very relaxed, and slightly better right after. I was supposed to keep coming back over the next few weeks, but even at a sliding-scale donation of $30 per visit I felt it was maybe not quite worth it for me at the time.

When I still couldn’t move after two acupuncture visits, I went to the urgent care. The doctor described what was happening to my shoulder as an injury, and he prescribed me muscle relaxers. I took them, and they helped me sleep through the pain and made me very dumb, but did not solve the problem.

What did? Waiting. And actually, not drinking coffee really helped. I went 3 months without it and I didn’t have back pain (or diarrhea, for that matter) once the entire time. I wasn’t as productive and energetic which was actually fine, until I flew to LA to shoot a web pilot called IRL that I co-wrote and co-starred in, and realized I simply cannot live this crazy life I lead without caffeine.

When it happened again a few days ago, I went to see a chiropractor. She cracked my back and neck in several places which was incredibly startling and moderately relieving. She told me my spine had probably been out of alignment since childhood and it was finally catching up to me (sounds like mumbo jumbo but ok.) She also told me I needed to start taking better care of myself and that I was too young to be in this much pain. I agreed with her. She made me assure her I would get a new mattress. I came back a few days later for another appointment and, again, the cracking noises were cool and all, but I didn’t really feel that much different afterwards.

I’ve tried meditation. I’ve tried massages. But I never put in enough time or money for it to make a difference.

Do I believe that these are all reasonable treatments for the strain and tension I was experiencing? Sure. But I don’t want to only treat my back when it gets fucked up and just be in a moderate amount of pain the rest of the time.

So, I got a membership to a yoga studio. Because I want to try out being one of those women who invests in feeling good, mentally and physically. A Bona Fide Yoga Lady. Seriously, imagine being a woman who wakes up in the morning feeling youthful and limber and physically capable of putting on her jeans without wincing in pain or cussing somebody out.  

And don’t forget the sense of superiority that comes with it! I cannot wait to be one of those women who carries around a mat and says “sorry guys, can’t come to happy hour. I have yoga,” then swishes away sassily tossing my ponytail. Damn, I am gonna be so motherfucking centered.  

There is something that feels both responsible and glamorous about prioritizing your health in a performative way. Even though it is so very Common Privileged Girl, I am beyond thrilled at the idea of spending my Sunday mornings in Fancy Brooklyn doing downward dog and drinking tea like I belong there. And getting brunch afterward in my leggings and Birkenstocks. And buying scented candles and, like, special water bottles that you actually want to drink out of because they look really cool. It’s ok. I’ll pursue this with some self awareness and won’t let it get out of hand (seriously, exercise freaks, stop telling people that “runner’s high” cures depression.) 

I think by being a mess for so long I’ve become attracted to wholesomeness in a way that is almost perverse. I am desperate for a lifestyle that is based, whatsoever, in simplicity. Even if it’s superficial (and actually very expensive!!! help me!!!!!!!)

See, this has been my plan all along. Pretend to have my shit together, and then maybe eventually I will.

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Things I Would Rather Do Today Than Go to the Gym

yogaburger

I need to go to the gym.

I need to go to the gym because I haven’t since before I hurt my arm, and it’s been healed for over a month. I’ve been losing weight in some areas, which I’ve used to tricked myself into thinking that working out is actually what makes me bigger. This is a lie. I am just losing muscle mass. I know this.

I need to go to the gym because last night I got high and drank ciders and Reid ordered Domino’s at midnight and they have a thing called Bacon Jalapeño Cheesy Bread, which I dipped in ranch and marinara and garlic sauce, and got so full that I fell asleep face down on the couch and missed the end of Housebound, and now I have a stomach ache

I need to go to the gym because in the last two years I have become extremely aware of any fat around my jawline and chin, to the extent that accidentally opening my selfie camera can ruin a good chunk of my day.

I need to go to the gym because when I told Alex about the fried chicken burrito I ate the other day he told me that he knows of young people who have died from heart disease. I also read an article the other day in Real Simple magazine (which I shamelessly subscribed to via a $5 Groupon as a way to manifest organization in my life) that drinking increases your risk of breast cancer. I love alcohol, boobs and not having cancer, so I need to keep my body otherwise healthy in order to have peace of mind.

I need to go to the gym because just wearing leggings and putting my hair in a ponytail makes me feel so confident and empowered to be “one of those girls” that I actually feel like a better person.

Here are just some of the things I’d rather do today than go to the gym:

1. Order Chinese food from the mediocre, stingy place by my apartment that only includes one duck sauce per meal

2. See how nice of a day it is outside, feel guilty about staying in, then take a nap

3. Look at pictures of the Paramus Park mall online

4. Clean each cat litter box, wait for one of the cats to poop, and clean it again

5. Get a pickle from Anthony’s Deli. This could take up the whole day

6. Watch my boyfriend watch NFL Red Zone and have one-sided conversations with him about what’s going on.
“Why do they call it Red Zone?”
“Because…………it’s only games that are in the Red Zone.”
“Is that where the stuff happens?”
“…………………Yeah.”

7. Finally watch that recording of Back to the Future 3 that I’ve had on my DVR for 3 months (I can’t actually do this because football)

8. Clean out my fridge. By eating everything.

9. Browse through all my old magazines and decide which ones to recycle

10. Put together my Halloween costume while watching horror movies

11. Read the entire Wikipedia page about the life and work of Wes Craven

12. Listen to EDM, both ironically and unironically

13. Watch fail vids and Ru Paul’s Drag Race on Reid’s couch

14. Potentially order more of that jalapeño bacon cheesy bread, tbh

15. Look at pictures from my past and be like “dag, yo”

16. Go to Vanessa’s Dumplings and order 6 things pretending I’m taking it all home to share with a group even though I’m totally, totally not.

17. Figure out how to get that thin layer of water and soap residue out of my kitchen sink

18. Figure out a budget to afford a cleaning lady

19. Talk about the two nightmares I had last night (One: that I had a pet ferret who turned into a bleeding snake. Two: I was having a party and there was a problem with the music)

20. Clean out my makeup case by trying on every product I own and deciding which things I don’t like anymore. And perhaps discovering a lip gloss I forgot existed!

21. Lint roll the cat hair off of my Pikachu stuffed animal

22. Lay on a couch and describe tattoos I want while Hannah draws pictures of them

23. Make Photoshop art of a cat on a beach wearing a pair of Umbro shorts and drinking a mai tai

24. Do acid?

25. HGTV

26. Paint my nails, presumably with a color I found during my makeup case cleanout sesh

27. Give my toilet bowl a deep scrub (I really like a clean house)

28. Come up with a dance routine and teach it to my friends, film it, put it on Youtube, instant viral video

30. Burrito

31. Send these free postcards I got from the Sierra Club to people I care about

32. Oo! Planning my Christmas card!

33. Try to make a recipe using only the ingredients I have in my cupboard, fuck it up, eat it anyway, and make a huge mess

34. Netflix and Chill

35. Get a tattoo that says Netflix and Chill

36. Call the Chinese food place and find out once and for all why they are so stingy with their sauces

37. Margaritas!

38. Remember that Snapchat exists, then Snapchat every 5 minutes of the day, then forget again

39. Look up how to clean an oven, then definitely not do that.

40. Watch iconic Celine Dion performances on Youtube

41. Livetweet Titanic

42. Do a thorough pass of all my social media profiles to make sure they are perfectly curated

43: Watch this video on loop http://frankenfemme.tumblr.com/post/129033519794/cubik808-willlaren-this-performance-art

44. Make a list of the best fashion montages in movies, then watch them all

45. Call my parents, which I definitely should do right now ugh why do I keep forgetting to do that??

46. Go to the dog park and look at other people’s dogs and think about how sad I am that my apartment is too small to have a dog

47. Look at Kos n Gonny and think about how no cat could ever possibly compete with their beauty and adorableness. Adorability? Kiss them 100 times.

48. Put on some uplifting music and some workout clothes and pretend I am in a pivotal transformation scene but only do dance moves that require very little physical effort, like the cabbage patch.

49. Quote the entire Sex and the City Movie from start to finish

50. This.

reading the signs

I have officially been wearing the same clothes for two days and I smell like chicken noodle soup. I just got home, carrying hair products, birth control and a burrito in the same paper bag. I’m googling “sad diva” and looking at the images. I haven’t done much today and it hasn’t felt like much either, which is good. Sometimes nothing feels a lot like everything.

Last week I had big plans. That is, relatively. I was going to get my first massage on Monday, go to yoga on Tuesday and then to meet my new therapist. On Friday I’d have a job interview. Of course all the time in between I’d be at my current job, but I was excited for all of these new opportunities to relax and reflect. I’d been feeling more and more anxious lately which I thought might have been a symptom of PMS, or the general stress of not knowing what to do next with my life. Or, you know, both.

The massage was awkward. I had a man’s hands all over me. I hadn’t had sex in a month. The entire time I was horny and trying not to fart. How was I supposed to relax? I left with a stomach ache, my shoulders still sore.

On Tuesday I was so whacked out and paranoid during yoga I spent the whole meditation worried the class was running over and I was going to be late for therapy. The class ran over. I was 20 minutes late for the meeting with my new therapist where I was greeted with one of those “I’m disappointed in you” smiles you get from a parent when you fake sick, only it was especially awkward since we had never met. I had forgotten to print out the paperwork and bring it with me to the session. This was starting off on the wrong foot already. What if she thinks I’m crazy? What if I am crazy? Fuck, am I crazy? We talked about my “life” as much as we could in the 20 minutes we had. I found out later there is a problem with my insurance, so my copay for that session was $115. Afterwards I changed out of my yoga clothes and did my hair and makeup in the bathroom at work.

On Thursday I went out. Winston was djing at Cocktail Bodega where there was an open bar, so I had about 5 vodka grapefruits and we left. On the way home we found a cardboard box filled with no less than 1000 Lifestyles ultra lubricated condoms and some children’s books. I decided to carry it all home with me just in case.

The following afternoon I had my interview, which I’ve now overanalyzed it to the point that I have absolutely no idea if it went well or not. But the best thing that happened to me all week was when the founder of the company came over, stared at my resume with a lifeless expression and said, “It looks like you’re a writer.”

Saturday night I bought a $20 dress from Necessary Clothing and went out to Dizzyland by myself, piss drunk. Aside from the train ride to the Spectrum and taking shots of Wild Turkey all I have is the hazy memory of dancing with some guy and then making a run for it. And apparently taking this selfie on the street.
IMG_5694
I think I was going for “violently adorable.”

What happened after that remains unclear, so the next morning I looked for signs of what might have transpired. I woke up with wet hair. I was in my pajamas. Lars and the Real Girl was paused on my computer ten minutes in. There was an empty cereal bowl and a bag of chips in bed with me. On the floor, my new dress was wet from the waist down. A red electric blanket I didn’t recognize was laying next to my condom box. I suddenly had a few frames of memory. Something about shivering in an alley, my legs curled up in my dress, and looking up at the Montrose L station mere steps away and thinking “there’s no way I can make it there.” Something about a yellow cab. Something about a blanket. I don’t remember paying a cab driver. Maybe I didn’t.

I spent the day hungover and laughing it off.

That night was the moment some had been waiting for! And the one I had kind of forgotten about. The Oscars are never really a huge deal to me because I suck at seeing movies the year that they actually come out. The only movie I saw in theaters in 2012 was Pitch Perfect. Not that I’m proud of that, it’s just true.

“But why?” you ask. “For the price of a burrito and some chips you could go see a movie.”
to which I say, conversely, for the price of seeing a movie I could have a burrito. And some chips. 

Of course there is always illegally streaming which I looove to do. The only TV I have is this tiny 90s Panasonic that I use for N64, and cable is just so not in my budget right now. I was able to find a live stream of the Oscars just in time for the tail end of the red carpet. The Seth MacFarlane thing was somewhat painful but most of it was funny/chill and needed to be said, so I’m not mad at him. I suppose it is necessary for award shows to evolve like everything else to that level of extreme self reference.

My stream was abruptly taken down right before the good part and the only replacement I could find was a video mostly covered by ads. So I listened to the rest of the ceremony while imagining what Jennifer Lawrence’s butt looked like when she fell and what facial expressions complimented Ben Affleck’s shrieking falsetto.Since I was really high by that point, and since feeling sad is a sport, I decided at 12:30 to watch Silver Linings Playbook, a love story where crazy people do crazy things and sometimes it’s okay and sometimes it’s not but maybe we can all stop being crappy if we want and find love, or at least help each other, or at least not feel so stuck.

First I cried a little. Then I was OK.

Frankenshit


Now usually I don’t do this but uh…(smoke inside, that is. but everyone else does it here and it’s THE WEEKEND and I’m by myself on my computer so…party. Also I spent the whole day doing yoga and looking at recipes on Pinterest I AM A DUAL PERSONALITY)

It’s been so long since I’ve been up front about my antics with you guys. As in, so long that I am about to tell you stories from October while currently planning my XXXmas party. Maybe I was sleeping on them because, well, October wasn’t the cutest of months and I am only now recovering. But I think…I think I’m ready.

It was the week of October Something, and Moe and Bradford, being the ONLY MEMBERS OF TEAM BIG THINGS THAT CARE ENOUGH, came up to visit me on their fall break. We kicked off the celebration by going to Wreck Room, a divey, Carrboro-esque bar with car seats as booths and graffiti scribbles everywhere and regular live noise-pop.
Reuniting feelz so good, y’all. Pretty sure this was a “pinkies out for Bernie Mac” moment. 
Of course I started the night a little overconfident and splashed a 4 dollar beer in my eye right of the bat. 
No night is complete without some casual adult breast feeding and a little street-anal.
The next day is when things started to get a little strange. By this point in the month I had somewhat successfully balanced my new job at the salon with drinking 40s at Winston’s and hosting visitors from home. I’d had the job for about two weeks, and although the ins and outs were still a little confusing I was getting the hang of it. I had almost forgotten that a few weeks before, in a frenzy to find fast cash, I answered a craigslist ad to be a bodypainted server/model at giant a masquerade Halloween warehouse party. I had sent them my picture because I thought it would be somewhat funny, and they were offering $1000 for one night of “work” which, let’s be honest, I’ve kind of done for free on multiple occasions. I’d be kidding myself to think I was above it, right?

By now they’d gotten back to me, “they” being this dude’s assistant (the guy owns a hotel or something and has had some small hollywood roles). They asked me to come by for an interview, which I had scheduled right after my interview at the hair salon (it ended up working out great because I wore a slutty black dress for “versatility” and it may have been the only reason I got the job at the salon. My boss is a straight man). The interview consisted of me waiting around for 20 minutes and then going up to the empty penthouse of this dude’s hotel and talking to him for five minutes about the size of my breasts and my level of comfort with toplessness. I thought it so was bizarre at the time, sitting on the patio of the 11th floor with the Empire State Building looming behind me and interviewing to be a go-go dancer. But I thought, “there’s a first time for everything” and “yolo” and “$$$$” and “who cares?” The man offered me drinks and food about 50 times to my decline. He told me about the different positions, one as a cocktail waitress that gets paid $500, and one as a “party masseuse,” which is a girl that walks around the party body-painted (with panties on!) and massaging people on ecstasy. Those are the girls that get paid $1000. That’s the one I said I wanted.

“We’re going to need a few photos of you,” he said. He meant topless photos. I gave him a nervous look at first and then shrugged. “I understand if you’re not comfortable,” he said. “But don’t worry, these pictures aren’t going anywhere. I have thousands of naked pictures on my laptop.” “So do I,” I said. What’s another person with a topless photo of me at this point? He departed and went downstairs, leaving me in the room with his assistant. She told me to strip down to my underwear, which was just a thong. I took my dress off while she checked her blackberry. Then, on the back of my application she wrote the number 27 in permanent marker. 27, my same number from the Miss National Pre-teen of North Carolina pageant I did when I was 11, where I won first place in sportswear modeling but fifth overall due to my “age inappropriate” glamour shot photos (I sat in fake sand with my legs open. I was wearing makeup and knee length shorts. I was 10. It shocked the southern masses). Having been made to feel like a slut for the last 12 years of my life, damned if I’m ever going to be ashamed of my body at this point. I held my number and did a series of poses for the assistant, slipped my dress back on and skipped out.

Now it was the “callback,” and I went back to the hotel to find the other girls, none of whom looked older than 19, waiting nervously by the elevator. I immediately became Stripper Mommy and tried to engage everyone in conversation to pump them up. “I heard there’s going to be an open bar!” It sort of worked. I made friends with a girl from the Philippines who didn’t speak much English which seems to be a running trend lately. Slowly more and more girls arrived, and before I knew it at least 100 of us were standing in a line, signing waivers and being forced to give up our cell phones. Here we go.

Once we got up to the penthouse we were all supposed to take off everything but our thongs to be bodypainted. All the girls were fun and hilarious, and most of them were comfortable with the idea. We undressed on the patio and went back to the main room where there was a DJ and the open bar I had hoped for. There were only four bodypainters and about a million of us, so for the first hour everyone was just standing around semi-awkwardly, chugging champagne and looking at each other’s tits. I was making jokes left and right and befriending this baby hippie who was telling me about her latest dubstep festival. I couldn’t stop laughing and staring at everything. It was the weirdest thing I had ever seen, by far. Sponsors from somewhere were walking around scouting who they wanted to represent their brands at the party. The owner of the hotel was walking around with his two tiny dogs and all white ensemble as if he does this every week, which he might. Photographers were snapping photos and one woman was making a video of the charade. A funky girl that looked like a thuggish Tila Tequila was getting a ravey blue Tarzan tanktop painted onto her perfect body by this sexy new-age black man with gauges. I never once saw the bottom of my glass.

As the girls and myself started getting drunker and drunker I started having more fun. I was surrounded by 100 friendly, super confident babes that loved their bodies. This never happens, and it was not what I had expected at all. The DJ was playing all the songs drunk girls love, from “Ur Luv is My Drug” to “Call Me Maybe.” Before I knew it all the ratchet girls had formed a giant krump circle, their asses never more than 6 inches off the ground at any given time. When “Single Ladies” came on, Baby Dubstep Hippie shocked everyone by jumping in the circle and doing the entire choreo start to finish. I have never seen a room full of women this excited in my life.

Finally I got painted, a bikini top in the shape of apples even though I never liked red on me much. We took group photos and I smoked cigarettes while looking around cautiously as the owner started taking girls aside to chat with them privately. “I’m not here to be anybody’s girlfriend,” I thought, and said, multiple times that night. I put my name on the list for the highest paying position and left. It was midnight on a Thursday and my friends were in town…hello…I’m going out.

Before I left I took a picture of my apple tits and instagrammed it. I won’t post the picture here. I like that it’s ungooglable for now and it’s a great reason for you to follow me @catdookie.

When I left the hotel I went to meet Bradford, Moe, Emma and Lamonday who were out for CMJ. I am lazy and bad at finding stuff like this to do because I don’t care enough, but when Moe’s in town I am always on the list for something. Tonight it was the Spin party, with AraabMuzik, Chromeo and MNDR, which, whatever. There was another open bar, which always earns points, and the douchey crowd made it easy for me to skip the line for the bathroom by showing them my apples. I won’t say this was a low point for me, because I’ve been really low before. It certainly wasn’t the best party either, but I was having a good time. Just your average night, I suppose.
Just to give you an idea of how thrilled I was by the atmosphere of this event. They were handing out promotional trucker hats made of paper.

Obviously I ended up having some fun that night.
The next day Hotel Dude’s assistant called me and told me I had to come for my second callback that night if I wanted the job. She told me the other girls and I would meet Dude at the hotel bar at 10 and then go to “the loft space,” which I thought meant the eventual location of the party. I said yes even though I had work the next morning at 9:30, because it sounded like this was “my only chance” and she said it would only take until 1 am. When I showed up at the hotel there was only one other girl waiting, an adorable Brooklyn native that barely grazed 5 ft. Dude was overseeing a nightclub act and had his bartender serve us unlimited beverages. I told myself I’d only have a few drinks, but we were waiting for a while and the drinks kept coming one after the other. The girl and I talked about our brothers and she showed me pictures on her blackberry of the food she’d eaten recently. I asked her how she found out about this job and what she thought the “second audition” was going to be like. She wasn’t sure, and we both started feeling a little off about the whole thing. Where were the other girls? Why were they taking us to a second location? Where even was this second location? We established our limits (no bottomless, no touching) and decided to ask Dude to his face what he had planned for us. He very candidly explained that the “audition” would consist of us going to go to his apartment, getting naked, and “massaging” him. Girl and I looked at each other. I’m no hooker, and if I was do you REALLY think I’d work for free? Heeeeeell nah. We walked.

I felt a little sordid for what was really the first time in this whole process. Partly because I was out 1000 bucks and the whole world had already pretty much seen me naked. But mostly because I was bummed that what I had approached as a fun, sexually freeing experience rejecting the stigma of nudity had ultimately turned into the run-of-the-mill exploitation anyone else would have assumed. I got free drinks out of it and had a lot of fun, so I don’t feel like I lost much. Hey, I’ll try almost anything once, but I drawing the line at prostitution. And, like, crystal meth.

“Come with me,” the girl said as she grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the hotel lounge. “I know some people.” Before I knew it, it was the hour I’d planned to go home and I was walking clear across town with a girl I’d just met to a club I’d just heard of for the first time. Maybe you know of Club Amnesia. It’s like the Pacha of hip hop, I guess, although I’ve obviously never been to Pacha. We get to the door at the front of a line that wraps around the block. My tiny friend gives the doorman a kiss on the cheek and we cross the velvet rope. Girl is actually Latina, but I could feel the piercing group side-eye at what must have looked like two little white girls cutting in line. “Miguel is supposed to be here tonight,” she says to me while the security guards search through our bags. I’m already wasted at this point, wide eyed and freaked out as a man twice my size metal detects between my legs.

My new best friend told me we were only drinking Hennessey and cranberry that night, and I was happy to oblige as I was not yet used to getting paid every week and temporarily thought I was rich. Because I’m a complete idiot I offered to buy the drinks. She gave me some money for tip, but I ended up spending $80 on four drinks. I was having fun for a few minutes, maybe even hours, and then everything went sour. I realized I had work in 6 hours at my brand new job and I was wasted and getting dry-raped in this intense-ass club. I think I tried to make out with Girl which was a no-go. Miguel very well could have been performing and I would not have realized. I was gone. I waved goodbye to my friend and darted out the front door, towards the street and into the back of a cab.

The thing is, when you catch a cab in Manhattan and tell them you live in Bushwick you ALWAYS need to be giving specific directions to the driver. CASE IN POINT my ass was so drunk that night I told homie to take the Williamsburg bridge, rattled off some cross streets and pretty much lost consciousness until I was in a part of Brooklyn I had never ever seen before and the driver was yelling at me to get out. Next thing I knew I was crying on a street corner at 4 am, drunk and exhausted, hooded strangers walking right by me without a glance. When I first moved to New York I thought it was only a “certain class of people” that you’d find rambling to themselves in a ball on the sidewalk. I quickly realized everyone that lives here takes turns playing the part of the destitute and clinically insane. That night it was me, and not for the first or last time.

The night ended with a kind stranger driving by and offering me a ride, the sort of thing any intelligent or non-desperate person would have turned down. But at this point I would have accepted anything, and having gained a little more control over my senses I was able to direct him to my apartment using the map on my phone. I was no less than a 15 minute drive away. He dropped me off and I thanked him sincerely without ever getting his name.

That night I slept for 3 hours before getting up for work, where I was to spill an entire large coffee all over myself and get called out by a coworker for smelling like alcohol. Luckily at the salon we just spritz each other with perfume and go about our day like nothing is wrong even when it really, really is.

The next week was Halloween Friday, the first in what was to be several consecutive celebrations of the same holiday. After work, Hannah and I went to Ricky’s to snag some children’s costumes and fake blood for our half-baked zombie hospital theme: “We’ll be the surgeons and Winston can be our escaped patient! We obviously need cleavers.” If you have “the body” for it, I highly HIGHLY suggest buying children’s costumes for your next Halloween extravaganza. They are usually pretty expandable, if the arms and legs are a little short, and you save like 50 bucks. I dressed my brother in our Great Grandmother’s old nightgown which I may or may not have ruined with fake blood that may or may not be machine washable. All in all I think we came out great.
That night we met up with two aliens, a dead fox and Tony and went to one of the infamous Bushwick mansion parties. I don’t remember much besides Tony spending 20 minutes pouring Joose into my face and getting chased for trying to steal the lightup statue.

And then Sandy happened. I don’t pay attention to the weather ever, but my parents started frantically texting me something the media dramatically named a “FRANKENSTORM.” I rolled my eyes at the phone all like, “Remember the Derecho last July? When everyone freaked out and the only thing that happened was a few cool instagrams of clouds? We’re gonna be fine.” Just in case, I bought some rad candles and an ample supply of Cap’n Crunch.

Natural disasters are about sharing! Sharing cereal with your cat, or a bottle of Jim Beam with that guy you always wanted to sleep with, or you know, electricity and hot water with your friends from Lower Manhattan.

So I was kind of wrong, but not quite. Much of New York, as you know, was super fucked by Sandy. But my neighborhood, being as far inland in Brooklyn as physically poss, was largely unaffected. The worst that happened to Bushwick was that the trains were shut down for like a week, and all the white kids with internships and retail jobs in Manhattan had to celebrate Halloween together five fucking days in a row.

That Tuesday I went to Tandem, probably my favorite bar in Bushwick as it is mostly queer and generally pretty dancey and fun. I wore a pair of fairy wings and did that thing I always do where I get drunk and come out as a full-on lesbian. The jury will always be out on my sexuality, though, as it fucking should be. Unsurprisingly, I saw a Sarah Cousler imposter. If you look hard enough you can find them in every cool city in the country, maybe even the world. They try their best, but they will never be quite as good.
By the time actual Halloween rolled around, I was almost completely over it.
Almost. I sent this picture to all my best friends as a kind of holiday ecard. 

Instead of going out again, I smoked two joints with Hannah and Winston and made them watch This Is It with me while I cried.

Tell me you can watch this with dry eyes.


That weekend we went back to the mansion and I spent most of the night doing mutual manual with some dude in the closet while trying not to vomit on him.


Someone at the party gave me this mixtape, pretty much making all the weirdness worthwhile. 

When October FINALLY ended, election day was upon us. A few days earlier I had mailed my absentee ballot into North Carolina like a GOOD CITIZEN. The state went red but I still felt actualized enough by the outcome of the election, and the fact that I got to take this instagram

On the night of the election I watched the returns at Winston’s with two forties of Ballantine and a box of off brand mac and cheese. As soon as Ohio went blue I was sucked into a vortex of mania that led me to watching the Crazytown “Butterfly” video 3 times, convincing everyone to huff dishwasher detergent and I think eating a little bit of old spice.
I helped pick your president!!!

Since then I’ve been living the broke life as usual and trying to get used to New York’s schizophrenic weather patterns. HURRICANE! SNOW! 65 AND SUNNY! I’ve been buying lots of clothes and household items I can’t afford. I’ve been staying out a lot and working a lot, all while planning my upcoming celebrations of DANKSGIVING and XXXMAS. Every week is another fucking holiday. With my personality and New York’s relentlessness, I’ll be lucky if I ever get the chance to have a normal life.

…why do I even have a Pinterest?