Today I wore very “Free-wheeling Metrosexual in the Hamptons/Yacht-faring Heterosexual in Miami” pants to Easter mass. They’re from J.Crew and they’re different than what I would usually wear, so I was a little wary of wearing them. Luckily, my family only made two passive-aggressive comments, so that’s a relative win.
I’ve really been lax about my blog lately, and I think that it’s a mixture of not sure how much of my personal life to divulge and also just a general exhaustion. But not writing makes me all angsty and antsy, so I’m going to make a commitment to you, the reader, and you, the blog, to really write. Like really, truly give it my all.
So let’s do some “Things That Are Happening Right Now”!
Things That Are Happening Right Now
1). My friend retweeted an article from Total Frat Move, so I clicked on it, read it, threw up, and then started looking through the website. They have this ongoing series called “Babe of the Week” where it’s just blonde girls who submit their Instagrams of them doing their best, “Trust Fund Baby-I’m A Mouse Duh” impressions. And the guy who writes the articles is this total douchey bro and I’m obsessed with him. I have a fascination with Greek life in the same way as I have a fascination with rom-coms as a sub-genre of science fiction—they exist in a parallel universe to mine.
2). My family is redoing our kitchen and I’ve been watching a lot of “flipping house” shows. The two combined have made me feel like I’m a relative expert on terms such as “subway tile” and “cabinets going all the way up to the ceiling” (to draw the eye upwards and make the ceilings appear taller). Also, I don’t fully understand Love It Or List It. Who fronts the money for the renovations on the “Love It” side? Does the show take care of selling the house if the couple decides to “List It”?
3). I love how much Trump threatens and blusters if he doesn’t get the Republican nomination. He’s literally a villain at the end of a Scooby Doo episode after those pesky teens have pulled off his mask. He’s doing the media-equivalent to shaking his fist as the police drag him away, as he says, “I would’ve gotten away with it too!” He says that if he doesn’t receive the nomination and the Republicans go to a contested convention—where if Trump doesn’t get enough delegates to automatically receive the nomination, the Republicans will engage in super-delegate vote trading and re-votes until a nominee wins—riots will break out. I kinda hope that happens. Not in a “Some men just want to see the world burn” way, but in a “Bored on a Tuesday night” way.
4). Former House Speaker John Boehner would support current Speaker Paul Ryan as the Republican nominee. My only comment is that Paul Ryan is hot, and it would be a very “Fitz from Scandal IRL” moment if he became President.
5). One of the most meta moments in my recent life was when Kylie Jenner used one of the new Snapchat filters, one that gives you a crazy-clown plastic surgery smile, and just went, “Did they base this off me?” And my entire world just reverberated.
6). Is a spring fling an actual thing? Because I was walking back from the gym on the first warm day of the season, and literally everywhere I saw people holding hands. And maybe my college is particularly bad at dating, but I ~never~ see people in relationships in the winter. All of sudden, though, I see either uncomfortably close friends or mediumly close relationships, and I’m like, “Who are these people?” I don’t get it.
Omg, so I’m done. I just ate Easter dinner, and now I’m watching Long Island Medium so I’m obviously done writing this blog post. It’s so bad that I can’t look away, so I need to focus on that rather than this. But side bar, I see Easter as the gateway to spring, so now—for me—spring has officially sprung. Yass yas.
The pathetic fallacy is the attribution of your emotions to outside forces. Trees, the sky, other people. It’s basically a literary term for the incredibly narcissistic. And ya boy’s got it bad.
I’m in a funk—whenever I type the word “funk” I think of Tobias Funke from Arrested Development and how they pronounced it “Fwoon-kay” and I thought that was so weird until I realized it’s the legitimate German way to pronounce that surname—and because I’m a massive narcissist, I’m seeing it reflected back onto the external world.
Gilmore Girls is getting particularly dark. A YouTube favorite of mine just got dumped. There was another bombing in Belgium today. Former mayor Rob Ford died. These things are not on the same level, and they’re not caused or related back to me. they’re bad things that are happening in the world.
And it’s hard to find the energy to try to be positive right now, to spin a web—anyone get that RHOBH reference—because sometimes the world is an incredibly ugly, harsh, dark place. But I think if I didn’t write it out, if I didn’t put it onto paper, it would roil inside me like a miasma, and it would sicken me. We need to talk about things. About the bombing. About death.
In my English class, we’re talking about Romanticism. And it deals a lot with balance and equality. Not in a Neoclassicist, orderly way, but in a more wild, vicious way. Beauty is vicious. Pain is artful. Pain is ugly. Beauty is harsh. And somehow the world keeps spinning, even though that’s a fucking rude thing to do, world.
I think I’ve been in a slump for a while now and I’m just realizing. It’s funny how that happens. The slip is so gradual and soft that you don’t realize, until suddenly you look up and the sky is a pinprick in velvet darkness and you’re sloshing around in quicksand. Do you slosh in quicksand? I saw How To Be Single last night and they mention “dicksand” which I think was supposed to be more metaphorical and less horrific, but it still sticks in the brain like…well, like dicksand.
Do you ever have one of those days where you wake up feeling dead, go back to sleep, and then finally feel like you can cope with humanity? Yeah, me neither. Today I feel awful, and my sweatpants prove it.
Don’t get me wrong—I love wearing sweatpants. As soon as I get home after class, the jeans come off and the sweatpants come on. But whenever I wear sweatpants outside, know that it’s a cry for help. I wore sweatpants today. And even the cool ~edgy~ snapback and chic new sunglasses couldn’t make up for it. Also I wore fuzzy socks. I’m unclear as to if that’s a cry for help or a victory. Maybe only time can tell.
I rarely have days where I completely surrender, but I think that they’re healthy sometimes. Like, some days, all you can do is heat up last night’s spaghetti, curl up under your blankets, and watch TV Land. No, I’m not making that up. Yes, that is what I did today. I watched this show, Teachers, where they said that “mimosas where a way for you to justify drinking in the morning.” They said this to schoolchildren. It is very much a show that I connect with.
Ugh, do you ever have times where you don’t have any original stories? That’s me. I mean, I have stuff that I could write about, but that would be putting my personal life on blast, which, until I write my tell-all memoir, If The Police Ask You Anything, Claim Plausible Deniability: A Tell-All Memoir, isn’t something I’m comfortable doing. I’m not at the point yet where I have enough friends to torch certain relationships for clicks and shares. Close, but not yet.
Lol I’m just trying to fill space. I reblogged a Tumblr post that I’m gonna try to include that was SO true about LOL. Hold on. Also, while we wait, consider how odd it is that “lol” is fun and flirty, but “LOL” is mom-ish and serial killer-y.
Okay, I’m done. Not done with you, but done with this post. I’ll be better on Tuesday. Maybe something ~crazy~ will have happened to me by then, that I can cannibalize and put into a succinct, hilarious post. Yet again, my main goal in life is utilizing my life for clickbait.
In last night’s episode of Broad City, Ilana, after she’s been fired from her job, panhandles in the subway, and briefly moonlights as a bike messenger—a “BM queen”—she somehow stumbles into the Brooklyn headquarters of the Hillary Clinton campaign and becomes a volunteer. She thinks it’s a paying job, but Cynthia Nixon—still playing Miranda Hobbes essentially—tells her otherwise.
The fact that Broad City, a show who has managed to introduce the spelling “KWEEN” and “YAS,” was able to bring in a politician guest spot, and Hillary Clinton at that, and not have it be completely transparent is a massive feat. Yes, obviously, they’re stanning for her, but in the reality of the show, it doesn’t feel unrealistic. I believe that Ilana would support Hillary. I believe that she thinks Hillary is for the “caramels” and the “queers.”
In a class this week, we analyzed the rhetoric of Donald Trump. Spoiler alert, it’s incendiary. But after two minutes of attempting to discuss his words, the conversation turned into all-out political free-for-all. And it made me think about what politics means for millennials.
We are often painted as lazy. Phone-obsessed. Babied. Immature. Unrealistic. Idealistic. Naïve. Our forefathers point to social media and iPhones and the Internet as making us soft. We live with our parents. we expect things. The “everyone gets a trophy” generation.
But I’ve seen how we actually are. We process information laterally. We are searchers. We are clever. We are made idealistic but we are also reacting to the grim reality of what our forefathers have left us. We live with our parents because jobs are scarce and rents are high. We expect a lot from people, but we expect more from ourselves.
And so politics is an interesting facet of our generation. It feels like the trappings of our parents. I think of Nixon and Watergate and ‘Nam and George W. Bush. This is the first election cycle where I am an adult and eligible to vote. And so this is the first election cycle where I have educated myself.
I think that people think that millennials don’t care about politics. Or that we don’t “get” how it actually is. But I think that the fact that Hillary agreed to guest on Broad City means that millennials are interested. We are growing up in the fragments of the housing market crash, the recession, the dissolution of the traditional workplace and the burgeoning presence of an Internet age. More than anyone else, we exist in an entirely new environment.
Politics in the millennial age is a nuanced thing. We are more concerned with social issues than I think previous generations have been. We’ve grown up learning about political correctness. We care about it. The Internet has brought us closer, and created a greater empathy. We are trying to get jobs in an evolving workplace. We care about taxes, because they will affect our trajectory. We care about the promises politicians make about college. We want people to succeed. We want to succeed.
And beyond that classroom where we had a passionate, intelligent debate, I see how my peers are talking about politics. We care. We see what older people have done and how they’ve fucked up. We don’t want to make those mistakes. And so we educate ourselves. We talk about social issues, we ask about healthcare, we question taxes. We inquire. We’re passionate. We’ve become empathetic, and we want to help. We want to make things better.
And so I think Hillary on Broad City succeeded infinitely more than Trump on SNL. It didn’t feel forced. It felt cool and funny and weird. It felt authentic. Because it was.
It’s Monday night. RuPaul’s Drag Race is airing the second episode of its eighth season, which is critically acclaimed by me, because I claim everything critically.
Side bar: Why don’t we use “disclaim” like we use “acclaim”? Or do we?
However, I don’t have a TV, and my “friends” with a “TV” are in “classes” or have “homework” so instead, we make a plan to watch RuPaul tomorrow, Tuesday, online.
Monday night, I’m already antsy. It’s officially past 10 p.m., so it’s officially past the airing of the episode, which means that all of my social media—Twitter, YouTube, Instagram, and Tumblr—are potentially flooded with spoilers (my social media accounts are extremely gay). So, like a monk, I take a vow of celibacy and instead read my book. every time I go to open the Twitter app—likely because there is a devil inside me—I flinch and avert my eyes, exiting the app before anything can be spoiled. I can’t scroll through Twitter. I can’t peruse Instagram. I can’t even watch YouTube in case I see any spoiler. It’s literally hell. I actually went on Tinder and started talking to boys because that was one place I was relatively certain I wouldn’t stumble upon a RPDR spoiler—unless, of course, you’re talking to a gay devil who loves spoiling TV shows.
Side bar: I’m talking to a guy who knows a hot gay that I know, so he’s probably out of my league.
Tuesday, it’s almost 8 o’clock when I’m writing this, and I haven’t yet had anything spoiled. All I have is one more meeting, and then I’m going over to Marco and Mitchell’s and we can watch the episode and I can escape this circle of hell that not even f*cking Dante could cook up.
And during my twenty-four hours of self-induced celibacy—celebritacy?—I have learned something. The whole notion of “spoilers” is completely the trappings of a first-world 21st century millennial. Do you think our parents had to worry about spoilers? My parents had, like, ten channels and one house-phone. They didn’t have to worry about sh*t.
Even in the early ‘00s, when spoilers first started emerging, you didn’t have to worry in the same way. If you missed the last episode of Friends, all you had to do was avoid the water cooler at work. I’m not entirely sure, but I’m assuming the Internet wasn’t, like, a thing-thing in Friends’ hey-day. Now, if I want to avoid a TV spoiler, I have to avoid at least four people and six different social media, not to mention “recap” shows like The People’s Couch (wow, that’s my second mention of that show in as many posts).
I find it so fascinating that our generation can have such unique issues that no one else really had to deal with. Abstaining from social media to avoid spoilers is right up there next to having to change your Facebook profile picture but not having any solid choices, or trying to explain what a hashtag is to your mother while in a Panera Bread. We—the first-world millennials—are growing up in a unique bubble of child and adult.
The other day, I referred to the habit of watching television shows week-to-week, as opposed to binging on Netflix, as “the old way.” I have brainstorming sessions and poll focus groups before changing my social media handles—I’m now @dnnymccrthy on Instagram and Twitter if you want to follow me (dropping the a’s made it seem minimalist and Tumblr-y). I follow an Ina Garten parody account on Twitter. These are not things that have ever existed as problems before.
A more connected world is a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing because I can be across the Atlantic and still be annoyed by my family. It’s a curse because there are, at any given point, at least two ugly photos of me from the seventh grade circulating the Internet. It’s, like, a Catch-22—jk I’m not old enough to get/make that reference.
We’re more educated, more opinionated, and more babied. That’s resulted in an entire generation of weird f*cking people. Today I discussed the rhetoric of Donald Trump on his campaign in class and Ubered from Trader Joe’s because it was raining. We’re giant babies.
I didn’t blog this week, and I feel its absence like a physical itch in the back of my head. I don’t think I realized how much I liked having that outlet; I would see something in the news, or think of something funny, and immediately think, “Oh, that would be a good post,” or “I should write that down.” But I forced myself to take a break, which was probably the best thing because now I’m ready to get back into blogging.
Spring break is over, and all of a sudden, the end of the semester seems impossibly close. It’s not fair—I just got back, and now it’s halfway done. When did I become the kind of nerd who wants more school? Or maybe I’m a self-preservationist who knows that after this semester, I only have a year left of being a literal child. It’s so weird—I bought pants (J.Crew) over the break and it struck me that I’ll probably have these pants well into my first working years. EWWWW.
Total side bar—I’m on the train coming back to school, and I’m using LTE because Amtrak Wi-Fi is a joke but the little “Are you sure you want to use up your data?” asshole pop-up keeps appearing every time I switch songs on Spotify. So, out of desperation, I decided to join the Amtrak Wi-Fi because I’m not really using data anyway. And now it’s taking forever to connect. Like, are you serious? You been begging me to use you and when I decided to throw you a bone, you’re slow?? Explain.
I’ve been watching a lot of YouTube tours of “tiny houses”—it’s more common than you might assume—and I’ve been really into this one particular channel—Nelson Tiny House. And I’m so over technology that I can’t even explain how appealing the daydream is of giving up everything, heading to British Columbia, and build some tiny f*cking houses. I could grow a beard, wear those cargo pants with the zip-away conversion to shorts, and use a—gulp—flip-phone.
What have I been doing this week? I watched some TV, and I read a book, and I edited articles, and I saw ppl I love, and some ppl I h8.
I’ve been in a very distinct music groove right now, very clean, a little Phoenix-inspired and an organic, early pop sound. I finally downloaded Carly Rae Jepsen’s Emotion album (I don’t know how to do the little dots to separate it like on the album, so I won’t) and that, combined with Foxes’s new album All I Need, Sia’s This Is Acting, and this new band that I’m very into, Cruisr—which gives me major Phoenix vibes, which is what I listened to when I was, like, fifteen and living for pop—has made me have the feels. That’s what I love most about music—it really affects me. It sinks into me and really shapes my mindset. So right now I’m feel a little early ‘00s hopeful and shiny, if that makes sense.
Also did you know that Elle King’s dad is Rob Schneider?? That’s completely unrelated to what I was talking about, but “America’s Sweetheart” was next on my Spotify and I remembered that I had looked her up and found that out. Kinda crazy, right? Definitely did not expect Elle King, who is so grungy and hot and cool, to have a dad like Rob Schneider. Fun!
I’m over Halsey at the moment. I was into her in the summer, but I’ve overplayed her music, and I’m not connecting with some of her album, so I’m gonna take a break from her. I hope she understands. I always do that with music. I play it ragged and then I toss it aside. Or I’m so impatient that I’ll skip through songs I like because I’m positive that there’s one song that perfectly fits my current mood if I could just find it.
One: Why did Snapchat change its font? I first read about it through an article, because I do not check Snapchat regularly, but then I did and I hate it. I shouldn’t have as extreme a reaction to it as I do, but here we are and there it is.
Two: Should I be watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta? I currently don’t, but I watch Beverly Hills and Potomac—idk, don’t ask me why—and when OC and New York come back, I’ll add those to the roster too. When did I become the kind of gay who watches four different versions of the Real Housewives? Anyway, Atlanta seems like it’s interesting, but I wonder if I’m too far gone already. Like, is it a waste to start now? Is the drama good now, or is there a backstory I’ll need to know to be interested? Like, I could never have started watching Beverly Hills this season if I didn’t know last season’s history, because this season is boring and no one has smashed a wine glass in a restaurant (yet).
Does anyone remember when Aviva Drescher threw her prosthetic leg across the table at Sonja Morgan’s “Team Sonja” party on RHONY? Even typing that out makes it seem fake, but that was so real.
Oh, there’s gonna be a Real Housewives of Dallas! Who wants to bet that someone will say, “Everything’s always bigger in Texas,” at least once every episode, and at least one Housewife will have some variation on “The higher the hair, the closer to God,” in her tagline? Anyone?
I’m on the train, and I’m afraid to check, but I think we still have more than an hour and a half left. So I’m literally just writing down anything that comes to my head. It’s a way of essentially writing Tweets without wasting data.
Would you rather have a ghost haunting your house or a human person stalker? There are obviously pros and cons to each, so I won’t rush you to any sort of decision right now. Get back to me. I think I would rather have a human stalker. At least he can be arrested. I’m not sure how I would get rid of a ghost, without having to find a medium, and who has séance-money these days? We’re coming out of a recession.
Side bar: do you ever get so bored of a song that you check and see that it’s only halfway through, and all you can think is, “What else could you possibly sing? I feel like you’re done?”
I really like reading reviews of TV shows. Before, I was like, “Ew why is this a thing?” but now it’s one of my favorite things to do. I follow a blogger who writes the most sickening reviews of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and even though some of her other stuff makes me cringe because she’s mean, I kind of adore her reviews. I think it’s fun because you get to see what other people think—it’s entering into a tacit dialogue.
Should I do more reviews of TV shows? Chic or not chic? I understand that it could be polarizing, but surprisingly my review of the Kocktails with Khloe premiere was one of my more popular posts. I’ve obviously since given up on Kocktails—as has most of America, I’m assuming—but there are other shows I could do.
Imagine this: I love this show called The People’s Couch. It features five-or-so “couches” (families or friends) who watch the most recent episodes of popular shows. It sounds so f*ckingboring, but the couches are so funny and it’s cool to see someone reacting to shows that you might not see otherwise. What if I did a review of that show? It would be a blog review of a show where people review and watch shows. Too meta? Probably.
I need to stop writing this ramble of a post, but I just have one more thing to say.
I find Daylight Savings so weird. The days were going to get longer again anyway, because, like, nature, so I just find it peculiar that the government decides to give Nature a little helpful shove by turning up the clocks. Or turning back the clocks? I can never get it straight. I think it’s turning up—heyoooo—so don’t bug me about it. I could do a full rant about Daylight Savings Time—am I even writing it correctly?—but I’ll spare you. Send your gratitude by way of some crisp twenty dollar bills; there are some shoes I want to buy.
Whew! It feels good to be back. I know that you missed me. We should get together sometime! You want to pick the date later? Okay, that’s fine. Just text me.
After I spent two hours writing vaguely pornographic essays about film theory—spoiler alert, everything is about manipulation and penis envy—I unfurled my pen-holding claw. The entire side of my hand was stained deep, sheeny cobalt from my pen. I had just used the word “edging” in an essay—yes, in that context—and couldn’t shake the feeling that I had either passed with flying colors as a pervert or failed miserably as a prude. Either way, I was proud of myself for refraining from using “blue balls” while discussing the culture industry. Small victories.
It was the kind of final where you are so unprepared that you’re almost excited to start it, where the only apt response you have to its eventual arrival is, “Alright, let’s see what you got! Hit me, bitch!” It was one of those.
I don’t know what it is, but I always feel the need to call my mom immediately after getting out of a big final or a test. I don’t think it’s because I think she cares; I think it’s just I have this deep desire to be like “Hi look at what I’m doing with the small fortune you’re spending on me! I’m taking tests!” And she’s like, “Good! You’re not squandering everything!”
After I finished having a conversation with my mother—which was five minutes of talking and five minutes of going, “Huh? What? No, I didn’t say anything.”—I met up with Shelby at Starbucks before my next class.
I’ve been slowly building up a relationship with the barista. She’s not always there, but she’s almost always there when I have my five-hour block of class. Sometimes I’ll go before the block. Sometimes I’ll go in the middle. We crack jokes, and I subtly push the limits and going right to the edge without actually asking, “So do I have to pay?” I know that I do, but I always have to test that boundary.
We’re so close that she already began to write up my order before I even got to the register. Granted, it was on a cup for iced coffee, when I only order hot coffee, but still the thought was there. Frankly, she’s one latte away from being my emergency contact.
Our relationship is exactly the amount of intimacy that I want. We don’t know each other’s names—we exchanged them once, but they didn’t stick—and she’s learning my coffee order and I break up the monotony of her day. After I got my latte and put an unhealthy amount of sugar into and settled back down into a conversation with Shelby, who was drinking Dunkin Donuts in a Holy Place, I realized that Barista had written “Friend” on my cup. Babe!
I didn’t write a post on Tuesday. I don’t feel bad. I was completely drained of ideas, and I had gone from gym to class to interview to editing and uploading that interview to library to event to home at 10. So I forwent—forwent doesn’t seem like it should be a word—writing a post. But now, two days later, I feel a little guilty. Not majorly guilty. It’s on par with what I imagine the guilt of a mother who accidentally leaves her kid at a WalMart but realizes before he does because he’s engrossed in looking at toys. A silent, niggling, not-really-there guilt. But still, a little guilt.
Now I’m on a train going home for spring break. Midterm week was so crazy-hectic and gross, that I’m so excited to be a vegetable floating for a week. I’m currently sitting alone in the “Quiet” car—my seatmate left at Providence—and I’m praying to whatever god I haven’t offended yet to let my solitude last all the way to New York. With my luck, it won’t happen. But I’m manspreading and keeping my fingers crossed. Every time someone passes by me, I involuntarily clench up.
I worked out three times this week instead of five—gasp—but every single time I was at the gym, I saw the same guy. Okay, so I, like, “know” him but he definitely wouldn’t know me. I’m the friend of his (ex?)-girlfriend’s costar and I saw them all in a play once. He’s hot in a skinny, straight, Patrick Bateman kind of way—which is to say that he’s hot but I could totally see him skinning someone and wearing it as a cape. Is that weird? Anyway, he’s strong, but wiry, but has a head of hair that’s very “hottest kid in Calculus in 1998.” Which—if you know me at all—isn’t not my aesthetic.
We seem to be on the same cycle when it comes to working out, so whatever I’m doing, he’s doing, but because I’m lazy, he’s usually doing it with more intensity and a higher weight. So not only am I at the gym, but now I’m at the gym and being intimidated by hot scarecrows.
Anyway, in my Wednesday night class, I was sitting waiting for everything to begin—and by “sitting waiting for everything to begin” I mean “screenshotting Kris Jenner’s Instagram”—and suddenly Patrick Bateman walked into class.
“Is there a class in here?” he asked me, and I just stared at his sexy mouth. Time stretched into taffy, and then it snapped back together.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“And there’s not any extra computers?”
And I said, “No…” because I was like, ‘Scuse?
He gave a half-smirk that I later described to my friend Mitchell as “the half-smirk, half-smile, half-laugh that is born out of a confidence where you have never had to worry about discrimination” because he was a straight, white male. It’s the kind of confidence that only straight white males and cats seem to possess—pure, unadulterated confidence that the world was built exclusively for you. Patrick Bateman left the class, and I immediately told Mitchell about it.
And so on this train, I’m trying to recuperate from a week of pyschotties, pervy film theory, and the struggle of trying to word something that I’ve already said slightly differently to beef up my word count. I overpacked for spring break. I know that I’ll be wearing exactly the same outfit every day—lethargy and track pants—but somehow I’ve crammed an entire Fashion Week into one small suitcase. I’m ¼ into a book that I Amazon Primed this week, but forced myself to abstain from until the work was done. Usually that doesn’t work—usually I’m super-shitty at restraining myself. I have poor impulse control and a knack for rationalizing a lifestyle of “Netflix now and stress later.” But I managed to do it and now I’m reading it. It’s I’m Special (And Other Lies We Tell Ourselves) by Ryan O’Connell who is sort of my writing role model. But it’s actually kind of dark because he’s talking about “getting a job” and maybe it’s the millennial in me, but I’ve just always kind of run on the assumption that I’m hot shit and everyone will want me to write pieces about stalking hot boys in CVS and pay me handsomely.
So I decided to take a break and write a blog post. I was going to give myself some time off, but then I remembered that death is inevitable and I might as well write before arthritis sets in from chronic knuckle-cracking (my mother swears it’s going to happen to me). The train is either still in Rhode Island or Connecticut, but either way it’s way depressing. Once, going home for Thanksgiving, the train broke down in the backwoods of Connecticut and I swear to God I thought we were going to be Walking Dead-ed. Gilmore Girls taught me that Connecticut was charming and winsome, and being white taught me that Rhode Island was the chic, New England equivalent to the Hamptons. But three years of riding back and forth and all I’ve gathered is that they seem like prime locales for dropping a body sans questions or making citizen arrests.